


A Royal Soulmate

by Selador



Series: Chocobros OT4 Soulmate AU [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: ALL OF THESE OCCUR ONLY IN DISCUSSIONS NONE ACTUALLY TAKE PLACE DURING THE STORY, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Assassination, BAMF Aranea, BAMF Prompto, Depiction of Fictional Fascist Government, Dissociation, Fear of Rape, Human Experimentation, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Imprisonment, M/M, Medical Torture, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Multi, OT4, Pedophilia, Politics, Rape, Restraints, Revolutionaries, Sexual Assault, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stabbing, Stalking, Strangulation, Trauma, Unethical Experimentation, Unethical Medicine, Unwilling Restraints, Violations of the Body Through Surgeries and Injections, Worldbuilding, Writing on Skin, being soulmates does not make a relationship, explores politics in a world with soulmates, medical rape, no unsolicited concrit please, not as dark as the tags imply, prompto grows up in niflheim but is not an MT, soulmate au where what you write on your skin appears on your soulmate(s), they have to work for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2018-11-04 17:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 112,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selador/pseuds/Selador
Summary: Prompto has three soulmates, but he's got to fight an empire, help the resistance, and assassinate the Emperor. It's not like his soulmates write to him anyways.





	1. "empirover"

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title: The Emperor is Dead and My Soulmate Killed Him
> 
> I'm tired, but this fic has been a fantastic method of relaxing for me, and I would like to share. Enjoy~

Aranea doesn’t have a soulmate, and Prompto has no reason to expect that he will.

So when Aedes asks Aranea if Prompto could deliver a message to his partner in the Untouchables district, Prompto writes on his wrist _blue door 16_ to remember where to go.  He takes off running, darting between the shadows and allyways where the MTs can’t find him, and remembers where he’s going well enough that he doesn’t need his note.

He only notices the note under his that says _what does this mean?_ in Lucian when he’s home with Aranea.

Prompto gasps and Aranea is there immediately. “What is it, what’s wrong?” she demands. For all that she is fifteen years old, she seems infinitely mature and responsible to Prompto.

“I have a _soulmate_!” Prompto says, shoving his arm up so Aranea can see it in all of its glory. He reaches to his pocket for a marker. “I should write back—”

“No,” Aranea says, hard and sudden. Prompto flinches and stares at her wide-eyed. “No,” she says softly. “We don’t know who they are.”

“But they’re my soulmate!” Prompto argues. Doesn't she realize how _important_ this is? “Is this because you don’t have one—”

Aranea stops that him quickly with, “What if they’re someone who works for the Empire? What if they find out where we are? Being your soulmate doesn’t mean they won’t kill you. Kill me. Kill Aedes and Tinia.”

Propmto protests, “But… they’re my soulmate.”

“You don’t know what kind of a person they are. Soulmates don’t mean that it will end well.”

“Then why even have soulmates?”

Aranea smiles sadly. “Who knows? Just another way for the universe to fuck us over, because the Empire isn’t doing that well enough.”

“But Aedes and Tinia are happy.”

To his surprise, she says, “They’re not soulmates.”

“What?”

“They’re not. Aedes doesn’t have one like me, and Tinia’s was a corporal for the Empire’s army.” Aranea drew him to their eating corner, and got out the leftovers of their soup to heat up. “Her family was trying to escape, and thought they could trust him,” she says slowly, staring at the soup. “They thought that because he was their daughter’s soulmate, he would help them.”

Prompto already knows how this ends. Anyone trying to escape usually ended in only one way. “He gave them to the Empire?”

“He did. The Empire spared Tinia but…” Her family was dead. “She got away from him. He’s still looking for her, and she still sees his writing on her skin.”

There are days where Tinia doesn’t leave her home, Prompto knows. Days where she refuses to see anyone. “Does he write on her face?”

“He does.”

Their meal is ready. It’s more water than anything, but it’s hot, and makes Prompto feel like he’s alive. “Okay. I’m sorry. I won’t write anything to my soulmate.”

Aranea just nods, relieved.

The night passes quietly. Prompto doesn’t writes back to his soulmate, but neither do they.

…

Prompto gets older, and he realizes that the first words he ever saw were not actually directed at him. Or, more specifically, his soulmate didn’t know they were writing to him because they have more than one. And they are, apparently, Prompto’s too.

They don’t write often, and Prompto wonders why they avoid talking to him. He can’t talk to them, but they wouldn’t know that, and even though he shouldn’t, he feels the sting of rejection.

They don’t talk much to each other either, and Prompto suspects that’s because of him. Despite that, they slip up sometimes, to the point where Prompto knows there are three distinct handwritings. It's always in Lucian, too, never in Gralean. The first one he saw, which is always a messy scrawl, a second one, which is so fancy and cool that it reminds him of those calligraphy fonts the computers always have, and a third one which is small, cramped, and would be legible if Prompto ever knew what their shorthand meant.

The notes they write each other are always benign, but careful. There’s never any names, any hint as to where they are.

But Prompto shows them all to Aranea, or Aedes, or Tinia, (and later Biggs and Wedge when they join them) and they pick up more from the words than he thinks his soulmates know.

“They all know each other,” Aedes says, fingers on his bearded chin, examining the flowy script of _y’all motherfuckers_ on his inner left arm.

“That’s what people say to people they know?” Prompto asks, twelve years old with only older teens for company.

“I wouldn’t recommend saying it to Aranea or Tinia, but sometimes people show affection through exasperated cursing and name-calling.”

Prompto considers this. “My soulmates are weird.”

“I’d like to know what they did to get called that,” Aedes muses, and moves on.

There’s some more cursing and name-calling, when it seems like his soulmates are frustrated with each other, but they never mention why in their notes to each other. Others include things like _I’m here_ or _Hurry up_ or sometimes, doodles. Sometimes most often of animals, but sometimes of dicks. But always in places easily covered up by clothes, and in Niflheim, no one walks around with anything but their face uncovered anyway, and sometimes not even that. Prompto’s job of running messages around Gralea, and later, on his own missions, is undisturbed by his soulmates’ banter.

He does, however, feel forgotten and left out.

So one day, while he’s waiting for a target to show up, he draws something universal and innocuous; a cat. Now, while Prompto enjoys his photography, he isn’t given much of an opportunity to take photos for fun. Being small and sneaky, and handy with a camera, at fifteen his own missions include finding and taking pictures of sensitive documents, guard patterns, and building layouts.

He has a good eye for images in his photography, but can’t draw worth shit. Still, Prompto makes a decently cute cat while waiting.

The black marker lingers on his skin, and he keep a smidgen of attention on it while waiting for his target.

There is no response by the time his target appears, and he lines up the shot and fires for a headshot.

…

It continues like this—occasionally, Prompto will draw something on his skin to remind his soulmates that he exists, he is one of them whether they like it or not, and none of them will respond. They talk to each other less too through their skin, which is presumably a side effect of their increased awareness that he is always there.

Prompto shouldn’t be talking to them at all. They could be anyone.

True, they always write in Lucian, but that didn’t necessarily mean that they weren’t Niflheim. A lot of Empire loyalists knew both. They had to, to uncover Lucian secrets.

But, Prompto is fifteen years old. After a particularly bad mission, where they went to rescue some resistance fighters only to find themselves too late to save them, and that was only the beginning of how poorly that mission went, Prompto goes home to the tiny bedroom he shares with Aranea and finds, upside on his stomach, _oh my gods that was amazing!!!_

His soulmates, whoever they are, are having fun on this day that they tried to rescue five people and ended up losing them and four more because someone tipped off the Empire. [Prompto, furious, grabs his black, permanent marker, goes to the mirror, and writes out _FUCK YOU_ on his face. In Lucian, just in case they can’t read Gralean.](https://suarhnir.tumblr.com/post/169914191449/fanart-a-royal-soulmate-promptos-soulmates)

As he predicts, Prompto gets no response, even when he wakes up the next morning feeling shitty and more tired than when he went to sleep. Aranea’s there, and she sighs, and hands him a loofah. “Get scrubbing,” she says.

…

“Does it ever stop hurting?” Prompto asks Aranea the next day, as they sit in their room, not daring to contact any of the others while the Empire was on high alert for them.

“No,” Aranea mumbles, her face in her ratty, old pillow. “But if we stop, who will fight the Empire?”

The _FUCK YOU_ is still slightly visible on his face, so it’s still visible on his soulmates’ faces.

But they write nothing.

…

Writing on people’s faces is not really an okay thing to do. The connection between you and your soulmate is supposed to be private. Intimate. Putting your words on your soulmate’s face is a declaration in some cases. With Tinia and her soulmate, it’s a reminder that he’s out there, and looking for her. It’s a reminder of how her family died.

When children write on their faces so it shows up on their soulmate, it’s usually taken as just that: childishness. The kind of thing children grow up out of doing, like drawing dicks. Which is an accurate description of what fuels Prompto to one day draw a big, hairy, dick on his face, while his soulmates were scratching notes to each other rapid fire, _wait did you bring the script_ , and _of course I did no need to panic_ , and _OF COURSE I’M PANICKING_ , and _calm the fuck down everything will go just fine_.

Prompto more or less guarantees it does not, but they still don’t write him back, so whatever.

…

Prompto is seventeen when his soulmates make their first major slip up in the form of a scrawled, _MY NAME IS IGNIS STUPIDHEAD SCIENTIA AND I HATE HAVING FUN_. He stares at the name written on his skin, and thinks, _I have one of their names_. _I actually have a name now_. Ignis Scientia.

Messy wrote it, so that means either Fancy or Shorthand is Ignis Scientia.

A minute later, the name is heavily scribbled out. Prompto stares at it, while the dark lines dash over the letters hurriedly and panicky. _My soulmate is doing that right now_ , he thinks, _so I won’t know who they are._

Nothing else happens, and Prompto doesn’t expect anything. Given how paranoid they have been regarding information, this seems like a huge fuck up on one of their parts. He can’t really say anything that would reassure them either.

This, however, he does share with Aranea.

“You have a name?” Aranea says, surprised. “Well, look it up. It’s probably not going to turn up anything, but it’s worth a shot.”

So on their encrypted, heavily secure computer Prompto types in IGNIS SCIENTIA and clicks enter, expecting nothing.

He gets a lot more than nothing. Quite a lot more.

Aranea leans over his shoulder. “Oh, he’s cute.”

_Count Ignis Scientia_ , Prompto reads in an old article on Crown City Daily, _Royal Advisor to Prince Noctis and Kingsglaive-in-training said in recent press conference that they were working on strategies to more efficiently evacuate Lucian citizens in outlying regions in case of more Niflheim bombings. Scientia, Count just in title, is from a territory formerly of Tenebrae which was conquered by the Empire sixteen years ago, and has since been working on bringing his people over from its dominion safely._

“So he’s unlikely to be working for the Empire,” Aranea muses.

“Probably safe to say that, yeah,” Prompto says, staring hard at his soulmate’s face. In the photo with the article, his face is serious but handsome, a study in sharp lines and stern composure. His clothes are crisp and clean, making Prompto painfully aware of his dirty, patched, and secondhand clothes.

He looks like he would never give Prompto the time of day.

“I can’t,” Prompto says. “We have to—we have that plan—I can’t yet.”

Aranea, elbow resting on Prompto’s shoulder, doesn’t reply immediately. When she does, it’s slow, “But you could. I wouldn’t blame you.” She stands up straight and Prompto swivels to look at her. “I also would be… relieved, knowing you’re safe in Insomnia. With your soulmate.”

“We’re so close,” Prompto says. “We’re so close. And you need me.”

“You know what our chances of success are, Prompto,” Aranea says, a little gently. “If you come, you might never get to meet your soulmates.”

He could die. He could definitely die. But, “No. No, I’m not leaving you here.”

“Prompto…”

“I’m staying. I’m staying, and I’m going to help. No matter what.”

Prompto might die before he meets his soulmate.

But if he can kill the Emperor, it’ll be by far worth it.

…

Noctis is playing video games when the news reaches him, and it reaches him first through Ignis and a text.

\-- _Where are you?_

Despite its innocuous brevity, Noctis couldn’t ignore—has been instructed to never ignore—concern from his Advisor about his whereabouts. He replies:

\-- _at home_

\-- _has something happened_

Ignis sends back immediately, _the emperor is dead. He was assassinated. The Niflheim Resistence has taken his throne. I’ll be at your apartment in five minutes to go to the Citadel. We are under lockdown._

Stunned, Noctis turns off his game and switches on the TV, to see the channel displaying, _EMPEROR IEDOLAS ASSASSINATED BY RESISTANCE FIGHTERS_ , along with grainy footage of slim figure exiting the Gralean Palace through a high-up window. The figure quickly disappears out of view of the camera, and the screen switches to news announcers debating hotly if the figure is the person who carried out the assassination. From the video, Noctis can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.

Noctis gets up and grabs what he needs, just in time for Ignis to let himself in with Gladio and Glaive Ulric.

“Get in the car. In the middle,” Gladio says, and Noctis complies, squishing between him and Ulric. He can see other cars following them as Ignis drives them to the Citadel.

“Do we know anything?” Noctis asks.

“Nothing substantive as of yet, I’m afraid,” Ignis replies. “That may have changed while we have been gone though. We’ll find out when we’re at the Citadel.”

Noctis, at nineteen, is expected to shadow his father and learn how to be king, essentially. When they get to the Citadel, Ulric stops them from heading to the throne room.

“We’re going to your chambers,” Ulric says. “We don’t want Your Highness and His Majesty in the same room right now.”

“But I should be there,” Noctis argues, as he follows the Glaive anyway.

“His Majesty is handling it. You’re on full lock-down. We don’t want any copy cats getting ideas.”

The four of them go to Noctis’ chambers, where there are two more Glaives stationed. Unhappy but unwilling to show it, Noctis waits as Ulric and Gladio recheck (for what is likely the fourth or fifth time) the room for threats or openings.

“His Highness does not stand by the window at any point. Luche, you’re by the door. Axis, the windows.”

Noctis goes over to his bed, resigned to sleeping through the biggest news of the century. Knowing he’ll be denied if he asks for privacy, he starts to change in pajamas right there, but stops after he takes off his shirt.

“Your Highness?” Ignis’ voice cuts in. “What’s the matter?” he asks, stepping closer.

Baffled, Noctis sticks his arm out to Ignis so he can read the note their last soulmate wrote them.

“What—oh.”

“What is it?” Ulric asks. Which is slightly invasive, to ask about someone else’s soulmarks, but all of the Glaives and Guards know that Noctis has an unknown third soulmate who is likely Niflheim. Noctis can see Gladio discretely checking his own arm.

“‘You’re welcome,’” Ignis reads. “Now why would they write that?”

“Maybe it’s not to us?” Gladio ponders. The Glaives shift a bit, in discomfort.

“Like, they have another soulmate who isn’t one of us?” Noctis asks.

“Unlikely,” Ignis murmurs, examining the words on his own arms. “This would be the first indication that such a person exists. These words are for us.”

As have all of their last’s words and markings have been. Not that they communicate with them much—when they do, it’s often just doodles of benign objects, like flowers or food—but there were those memorable occasions when the three of them suddenly had a giant dick on their faces during Noctis’ first press meeting, and they had had to stall for Noctis to cover up before anyone in the press saw and made his soulmates a topic for a frenzy. And then not too long after when a FUCK YOU manifested itself on their faces while Noctis was meeting with his father’s Council. Thankfully, Cor instructed them to leave and come back after they had applied cover up.

“Then what’s it about?” Noctis repeats, staring at his arm.

Ulric clears his throat. “Apologies if this is out of line, Your Highness,” he says slowly and carefully. “But why don’t you just ask them?”

Noctis opens his mouth and closes it. Asking didn’t occur to him, as used to ignoring their last as he is. They had never been able to talk to them. They could be a Niflheim loyalist, and report whatever they learned. They could live in Niflheim and _not_ be a loyalist, and be doomed if anyone found out who their soulmates were. They could live in land conquered by Niflheim which presented the same risks. They could live in the Niff District of Insomnia, but it was too risky to hope for that.

At this point, they obviously do not live in Insomnia. Or they would have shown up when Noctis screwed up and revealed Ignis’ name.

So Noctis, Ignis, and Gladio were all ordered by the King to ignore their last soulmate, to not give them any information.

But asking what his comment is about wouldn’t be giving them any information.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Ignis says.

An expression of skepticism crosses Ulric’s face but disappears just as quickly. “Thank you, milord.”

“Alright then,” Noctis says, pulling out a pen from his pocket.

Without much pondering, he scrawls, _lol for what_ on his arm before anyone can stop him because he wants _answers_ about _something_.

The problem, though, with communicating via soulmark is that you have no idea when you’ll get a response. Noctis sighs, “I guess we still just wait. Anyone want to play cards?”

…

After about an hour of tense card game playing with his soulmates while the Glaives stood nearby, Iggy announces, “Our soulmate is writing back,” while rolling up his own sleeve.

“You can feel that?” Ulric asks.

“I happen to be sensitive to it,” Iggy replies examining the lines on his arm. They’re not words. “They appear to be drawing something.”

Watching the marks from their soulmate appear twists something inside Noctis, which he ruthlessly crushes down.

As the marks take shape in the crude resemblance of a man, Gladio says, “No way. No fucking way.”

“What is it?” Noctis asks, but as soon as he says it, he recognizes the face their soulmate is drawing.

“Emperor Iedolas. Why…?” Iggy says, more to himself than anyone in the room. The question hands in the air as their soulmate finishes the drawing with two, sure, lines, forming a solid X over the Emperor’s face.

Noctis and his soulmates do not know how to react, and he can feel keen interest from Ulric and the other Glaives.

“No,” Gladio decides. “There’s no way.”

“Wait, there’s more,” Noctis says. Bizarrely, it’s an arrow pointing to Iedolas’ face with the note, _NO LIPS_!!

They contemplate that with some silence. “At least they answered us,” Ignis says. “Whether they were actually the assassin is more difficult to determine.” At this, Ulric twitches a bit.

“That’s kind of a big thing to claim, though,” Noctis says. “Why would they if they hadn’t?”

“They know my name, and presumably took the minute that would be necessary to know my role here,” Ignis says, and Noctis grimaces a little at the memory of his fuck up. “They could be attempting to garner our favor. But unless if the Emperor’s assassination is some part of a ruse, which would be… I can’t see why Niflheim would want to do that. It would destabilize the Emperor’s power, to say the least for what effect it would have on his propaganda.”

“Okay, wait, there’s an easy solution to this,” Noctis says, and writes another message to their soulmate.

_are you saying you killed the emperor?_

“Your Highness,” Ignis says, slightly exasperated. Ulric moves to stand by Noctis, staring intently at his arm, also waiting for the answer. Noctis has tried to become immune to the interest people pay to his soulmarks, but he shifts uncomfortably regardless.

They don’t try to pick up their card game again. They just wait.

And within a few minutes, their soulmate responds with, _yes._

...

Ulric orders Axis to inform the King and his Council, all with a terse, “Axis.” Noctis is too stunned to react, Ignis is scrubbing his already clean glasses, and Gladio says, “Well, hot damn.”

Ignis says, “We can’t verify this. Their word doesn’t necessarily mean--”

“They know that at least one of us is a Lucian noble and official,” Gladio interrupts. “They’ve probably been able to figure out that we all are. They _could_ be lying to trick us, but they also could be a resistance fighter who knows his soulmates are Lucian nobility and went above and beyond to kill the Emperor.” Gladio’s rubs the soulmark. The two remaining Glaives look away. “I’m sure ignoring them has done them no favors. It’s been almost ten years.”

It has been almost ten years since their last soulmate made themselves known by scrawling some notes to themselves. Almost ten years since the Citadel went into panic because the Crown Prince suddenly had Gralean scrawled on his arm.

“Let us ask them why, then. We seem to do much better merely asking them than speculating.” Plucking out his own pen, Ignis writes succinctly, _why?_

There is no response for several hours, past when Noctis decides to try to sleep a bit. But he’s still awake when Ignis says abruptly, “They’re writing.” Noctis sits up, and Iggy gives him a bit of a stink eye. “That’s the fastest I think I’ve ever seen you get up.”

“Oh, shut up, Iggy,” he mumbles, flushing a bit.

Their soulmate writes, _because he was a DICK_

Which… is really not what they were expecting. Noctis gives Iggy and Gladio a baffled look, but they’re faring no better.

Their soulmate doesn’t stop, words scrawling onto the other side of their arms.

_now he’s DEADolas_

A quick doodle of a dick by the word, DICK.

_the emperOVER_

Before they can continue, Noctis writes, _you ok?_

_no_ , they write back, _i’m in pain. and i’m on a lot of drugs._

And then, _but the emperor is dead! yay! yay, right?_

“Don’t respond to that,” Ulric commands.

_ignis scientia, are you happy that the emperor is dead?_ Noctis tenses. He knew that it was unlikely that their soulmate _hadn’t_ seen Ignis’ name on his arm for those short few minutes it was there, but they had never made any mention of it.

“Well, that answers some questions,” Ignis mutters.

Their soulmate’s writing becomes erratic and more difficult to read.

_Iggy_ , their soulmate writes, _did I do the right thing?_

“I—” Ignis stops. “I can’t answer that.”

“But it was a good thing,” Noctis says. “Good for us, anyway.”

“The Empire is destabilized now. It’s a violent shift of power, to whomever it goes to. We don’t know who will fill that vacancy. It’s always possible that they will be worse than the person before.”

“But it sounds like our soulmate is on their side,” Noctis argues. “And we don’t know our soulmate, but they don’t _sound_ awful.”

Ignis gazes at him solemnly. “A lot of people are going to die in this power shift. They always do, with an event like this.”

“A lot of people were dying already,” Noctis says. He doesn’t look at the Glaives. He knows most of them are immigrants from other regions of Lucis, regions that have already fallen to Niflheim. Regions they couldn’t protect. “ _Our_ people, Ignis.”

“Your Highness…”

“Are you really not going to reply to our soulmate?” Noctis demands.

“I can’t tell them if they’ve done the right thing, Your Highness. We don’t know what’s going to happen in the Empire now. And we don’t know anything about them.”

“But we were going to _lose_ the war, Ignis,” Noctis snaps. Ignis’ mouth snap shut, and his face goes blank. The room goes still, and Noctis becomes very aware of everyone in the room. He shouldn’t say this in front of soldiers, but now it’s too late. Might as well commit. “We were on the path of being conquered. We can’t fight off the Empire for much longer on the neighboring regions. It’s only a matter of time before we lose them. Then there’s just Insomnia and the Wall, but with my father’s health, there’s only so long before—” _he dies_ “—I take his place. To keep up the Wall until we either all die, or it falls, or we get an Astral-sent opportunity. Like this one. We’re not going to be given a chance like this again.”

“Noctis…” Iggy says.

“You know I’m right, Ignis.” Noctis breathes in. He has the attention of not only Ignis, but Gladio, and the two Glaives. Out. “Our soulmate says they assassinated the Emperor, and they want to know if you approve. We don’t know anything about them, that’s true. So, we _also_ don’t know if they’re going to survive.” It hurts Noctis to say this, but the slim figure that left the Emperor’s window had a long way to go to get to safety. “They might be dying in a ditch right now. Maybe these are their last words.” Gladio’s breath hitches, and the Glaives are pointedly not looking at any of them. Ignis is convinced, Noctis can tell. He takes in a breath to calm himself, and says, “Now write back to our soulmate and tell them that they did the right thing.”

A beat. “Of course, Noctis.”

…

Prompto wakes up aching, mouth tasting like medicine and like he didn’t brush his teeth before bed. When did he go to bed? He can’t remember. He slogs through his memories, trying to remember what happened and why he feels like such shit—

Oh, right. He assassinated the Emperor and jumped out of a window. That’s why he feels like shit.

And why he’s alone. Aranea and the others are likely trying to keep things under control. Or as much as they can, anyway. It’s going to be a while until things settle.

He really needs to brush his teeth.

Groaning, Prompto drags himself out of bed to the tiny bathroom. Despite everything, he feels lighter. There is nothing he has to do. No fellow resistance fighters to check in on, no bases to infiltrate and sabotage, no one to shoot, no one to bury. The Emperor is dead. He succeeded. And he’s to lie low until told otherwise.

For someone like him, it’s practically a vacation.

As tired as he is, Prompto doesn’t notice the marks on his arm until he’s undressed for the shower. Startled, he stares at the sleeves he and his soulmates made with their words.

“What the hell…?” Prompto whispers. “They actually spoke to me?”

He sees his own handwriting. It’s hard to determine what came first, but he eventually identifies his own _You’re welcome_ and locates the conversation after that with growing horror. “Oh no.” He keeps reading. “Oh, no...” And keeps reading. “Well, _fuck_ me.”

Prompto slides down to the floor as he finishes reading. His heart thumps uncomfortably as he reads the last notes of _Yes. You did the right thing_ from Shorthand who is definitely Ignis Scientia. At least he has an answer on that.

_Aranea is going to kill me_ , Prompto thinks dismally. _Crap._

He was on way too many painkillers last night. Way too many. Who the fuck gave him that many and left him alone? “Fucking Biggs,” Prompto curses. “Where did you get your stash anyway?”

Staring at the marks, and grimacing at the note he’d made of NO LIPS—which, as true as it was, holy shit he had been _really high_ —he sighs. Prompto leaves the bathroom for his phone, takes pictures of the marks, and sends them to Aranea. He texts with them, _biggs got me high on painkillers last night and my soulmates decided it was a good time to actually talk to me. revealed more than I should have. if ur going to kill me give me a heads up so i can flee_

He sends, and then goes to take a shower and tries to erase the marks off his arm.

Prompto watches his words disappear, but his soulmates’ remain. His eyes return to _Yes. You did the right thing_ too often.

…

Aranea does not kill him.

Instead, she coos, “Ah, they were trying to reassure you. That’s so sweet,” while Prompto blushes furiously. “Also, you were really high. How much of the good stuff did Biggs give you?”

“Too much,” Prompto mutters.

Biggs protests, “I gave him only half a dose. He shouldn’t have gotten high at all,” from where he’s going through paperwork in the corner. Or what he supposes passes as a corner in the palace. Biggs looks out of place there, but no more so than how poorly Prompto feels he fits in with the gilded everything. The walls, curtains, vases, decorative armor, all gilded and gleaming and gorgeous. Prompto wonders how much it cost, and how many people each piece could have fed if their Emperor had not been a power-hungry warmonger.

Prompto can’t imagine living here full-time. No wonder royalty goes mad.

And now, with the Emperor dead, his council dead, Verstael Besithia finally dead, Aranea plans on taking the throne. She has been and is their leader, and has been for years. There is no one better to try to wrangle something humane out of the disaster that is the Empire.

It won’t be easy, if it’s possible at all.

His thoughts are interrupted as Wedge calls out, “Light-weight,” from the computer.

“Fuck all of you,” Prompto curses at them.

“You should go to Lucis,” Aranea says and the world stops for a moment.

Prompto protests immediately, “I can’t leave,” rejection sharp and stinging.

“You _should_ go to Lucis,” Aranea says again, finality in her voice. “And meet your soulmates.”

“Aranea—”

She cuts him off, correctly guessing what he was about to say. “If you don’t go now, then when?”

“When I’m not needed here,” Propmto says, and tastes the cowardice on his tongue.

“You’ve been saying that for years,” Biggs points out. Prompto flips him off, making sure Aranea doesn’t see.

“Now is the time,” Aranea says. “You’ve done the hard part. We can take care of things here.”

Prompto says nothing.

“If you stay,” she continues more softly, “do you really think you’ll ever go to meet them?”

Prompto swallows. “No.”

“Then go to Insomnia now. We’ll be fine. Go and meet your soulmates.”

Prompto looks around at the room, at Aranea and Biggs and Wedge, and thinks of the years he has spent living and fighting and working with them. “I—I don’t know if I want to.”

“It’s scary,” Wedge says suddenly. “Meeting your soulmate. I mean, all I had was Biggs here—” Biggs let out a soft protest “—and that was still terrifying to meet him for the first time when we were _kids_. You’ve had ten years of wondering and distance. And three soulmates! Of course it’s terrifying,” and he stops for a moment, and gives Biggs the mushiest, most affectionate, most disgusting look Prompto has ever seen him have. “But it’s worth it.”

He’s right. And it’s sweet of him to say. But Prompto takes the opportunity to make a face and break the mood entirely by pretending to gag, and he only narrowly dodges the probably expensive pillow (and Astrals, that’s probably real gold embroidery, what’s even the point) that Biggs throws in his direction.

“And even if your soulmates are not what you want,” Aranea adds, slowly and hesitantly. “It would be good to at least know that. Before you go your entire life without meeting them.”

“Okay,” Prompto concedes. “I’ll go. I’ll do it. I’ll go meet my soulmates.”


	2. A Bad Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is following Ignis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the positive feedback~

Ignis sees the boy and a flash of metal out of the corner of his eye, visible only for a moment on his walk in the window of a nearby building. He is down half the block before he realizes that he has seen that boy before. Always at a distance, always in a building, or just the hair from a rooftop… and always when Ignis is alone.

The locations are particularly good choices, if one is an assassin.

With a sudden wave of cold and controlled panic, Ignis pulls out his phone and calls Gladio. As soon as he picks up the line with a gruff, “ _Yeah?_ ” Ignis says, “There’s a four-one-six.”

Gladio doesn’t miss a beat, but it’s the wrong beat. “ _Get Noctis to a secure location—”_

“He isn’t with me,” Ignis says quietly, heart pounding as he heads into a crowd. Under the cover the masses, he can scope around for the assassin and any others. It’s a risk to the public, hiding among them, but if they can’t get a clear shot—

A Crownsguard car pulls up, and Ignis recognizes the driver and the two guards. He gets in, and closing the door to the bulletproof vehicle allows the wave of panic to ebb slightly.

“Sir,” the guard in the back with him says. Ignis recalls vaguely that he’s of the Clava family. “What did you see?”

“A young man with blond hair in a well-positioned location in a nearby building. The curtains were drawn, he was visible for a second. And I’ve seen him twice before, in similar situations. The first was probably two weeks ago, when I was on an errand to the supermarket. The second was just a couple days ago, when I was in the park.”

Clava shoots a glance to the guard in front. The guard in front—a woman of the Silex family, Ignis is sure her first name is Ferra—makes a brief hand sign to signal that they’re clear for now. “Were you alone each time?”

Ignis hesitates for just a second. Nothing the guards would notice. It is one thing for assassins to target the prince, when the goal and reasoning is clear. It is another for when Ignis himself is being stalked and targeted, rather than those who would make a larger impact were they to perish.

He says, “Yes, I was.”

Ignis is advisor, friend, and Glaive-in-training to the Crown Prince of Lucis. He has rank and title that would be disadvantageous for Lucis to lose, but nothing irreplaceable. Not like the King or the Prince. And this is the third time Ignis has seen a hint of the assassin, and it’s troubling but likely that the assassin has been around longer and more often than he has noticed. But what intent does the man have, if not to kill him?

Might he be trying to make a point? What point would that be? Make him paranoid? Hurt Noctis—

Oh.

Oh, no.

Noctis’ soulmates are a _state_ secret. Aside from the King and the Council, only the guards and glaives who regularly work with Noctis, Ignis, and Gladio know that the three of them are soulmates.

They have a traitor. A leak, in one of the highest-ranking groups in Lucis.

Ignis is replaceable in his official position to the Crown. He is not replaceable as one of the Prince’ soulmates.

…

Like after the assassination of the Emperor of Niflheim, Ignis finds himself sequestered with Noctis, Gladio, and a couple of Glaives. Ostium and Arra, Ignis believes.

“I haven’t seen anything,” Gladio says.

And Gladio would notice if someone was following him. Which meant that either Ignis is being singled out for an unrelated reason, or more likely, “They may not know that you are also His Highness’ soulmate. That is need-to-know information, after all. If the leak only knows that Noctis and I are soulmates…”

Gladio frowns, considering. “So then who knows only that you're Noctis’ soulmate?”

Ignis nods, already taking out his phone to text his assistants. “We’ll have to find a list of each guard’s assignments, and isolate those who would have reason to be privy to knowing about me but not you.” It would be a lot to search through, but his assistants would make short work of it.

Noctis sighs. “I’m glad you’re alright, Iggy.” He reaches over from his chair to grab Ignis’ hand. He gives it a gentle squeeze, and receives one in return.

Ignis cannot reassure Noctis and Gladio as he would like to, not with two Glaives keeping them company, but they are allowed this small bit of affection still.

He reclaims his hand only when his phone beeps with a message from his assistants.

The reports his assistants assemble for Ignis are inconclusive. The Crownsguards and Kingsglaives who are trusted to guard over Noctis and his soulmates, and to know that little fact, are generally trusted to know about both Ignis and Gladio. It was outright unlikely that they would not know about both. If someone had learned about Ignis and not Gladio, it was impossible to tell by the assignment log.

All of which indicates that Ignis is not being targeted for being Noctis’ soulmate.

“What’s the news?” Gladio asks, leaning forward in his seat.

Ignis glares at his assistants’ message. If not for Noctis, then they are back to square one. “It appears that I am likely being targeted for a reason not connected to my soulbond.”

But why? Ignis is a Count in title, but aside from assisting the former citizens of his conquered land, the title has no power. Perhaps a former subject, who is bitter that Ignis’ family could not protect them when the Empire came? That would, at least, be plausible.

If it was for his position as the Prince’s Advisor, it would be for specific decisions he had influenced. Ignis sends a response to his assistants quickly for a record of his public votes and major detractors and protests. He can recall some votes offhand that might be the cause, but with an individual involved that is obviously skilled and holding a grudge, it could be a decision he made years ago.

“So you _are_ being specifically targeted, then,” Gladio says, tense and eyes sharp.

“It appears so.”

“Arra, tell the Captain and Luche that Ignis will have two Kingsglaives guarding him at all times until we track down this assassin,” Gladio commands. “Only those with the highest security clearance. We need to start searching for the leak, too.” Ah, good. Gladio came to the same conclusion Ignis did. “Ignis, have your assistants forward that list to the Glaives so they can begin their search. And you’re under house arrest,” Ignis wants to protest, but now is neither the time nor the company. “You can do your work, but you don’t leave the Citadel if it’s not an emergency. And you definitely do not leave without guards.”

Arra nods and steps out of the room for a moment to relay the orders.

Frustrated, tense, and worried, Ignis refrains from saying anything. Instead, he discreetly retakes Noctis’ hand.

…

The Glaives, diligent and thorough, comb through Insomnia and find no trace of the blond assassin even after five days of searching. Ignis occupies himself with work for three of those days, distracting himself quite thoroughly from any thought about his would-be assassin who is still waiting out there for him. He distracts himself so well, in fact, that Gladio forcibly herds him back to his room and lies down on top of him in to make him take a break from work.

Ignis can’t sleep. Even with Gladio, strong, relaxed, and confident besides him, when he is deep in slumber, Ignis worms his way out from his arms to pad his way out the bedroom into his living room. The door is cracked open, so they could have the privacy of their room while still granting tonight’s guard visibility.

Glaive Ulric is sitting on his couch, with a cup of coffee. There is, happily, more in the pot, so Ignis helps himself and joins him.

“Problem?” Ulric asks, glancing at the bedroom.

His hackles rise, aghast at the inappropriate question, before his indignation is swiftly cut down by the knee with the realization that he is merely doing his job. Embarrassed by his immediate reaction, Ignis only replies with, “I can’t sleep.”

Ulric eyes him critically. “Worried?”

“Indeed.”

The other man nods a little. “It’s not usually you who’s the target of an assassin, huh?”

The coffee helps, but Ignis still says too snippily, “No, I’m not.” A pause. “My apologies. That was rude.”

“It’s no problem,” Ulric waves away, tone becoming slightly more casual. “You haven’t been sleeping well at all, huh?”

They are not so familiar with each other that the tone is appropriate. He is, however, responsible for Ignis’ continuing safety for the rest of the night, so he bites back the immediate response. “I have not, no.”

Ulric stares at him, gaze heavy and considering. Ignis wonders if he could hear the bite in his words, and admonishes himself for his lack of professionalism. “Something I was wondering,” Ulric starts slowly. “This guy we’re looking for. From the report I got, you said you’d seen him a few times, yeah?”

Ignis bristles, but answers, “Yes.”

“And that he was definitely taking a sniper’s position?”

“Yes,” Ignis answered, letting annoyance seep into his voice. “I reported all of this already.”

“Just working up to a hunch. And you said you saw blond hair, right?”

“ _Yes_.” Though that means little, as he has discussed with Captain Drautos and Gladio. Dye and wigs for disguises are readily available after all. But, given that it is one of the few scraps of information they have to work on…

“So it might be a Niff sniper,” Ulric says.

“Obviously,” Ignis snaps, rude and uncaring. “That is why it’s _terrifying_. We have a traitor in our midst who has leaked or sold information to Niflheim Loyalists, and we’ve yet to identify anyone!”

Ulric ignores him, and leans forward. “But don’t we already _know_ of a Niff sniper with blond hair who specifically has your name?”

In a rather undignified manner, Ignis gapes. When the thought sinks in, he says, “Give me a pen.”

Ulric hands him one from somewhere, it doesn’t matter, and writes on his upper left arm, where Gladio and Noctis are unlikely to notice it immediately, _Have you by any chance been stalking me?_

There is no response for the next few hours. Ignis abandons the living room shortly before day breaks to slip back into Gladio’s arms before he wakes up. His actions were well-intentioned, and Ignis does not want him to worry.

He is exhausted, but his mind whirls with the possibility that his stalker is not an assassin, but his last soulmate. When Gladio wakes, his arms tighten around Ignis, yawns, and begins rubbing light circles on the small of his back.

“You’re so tense,” Gladio mutters. A eye cracks open. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Not as much as I would have liked,” Ignis answers truthfully.

Gladio hums, leans forward and presses a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll think of something else then. Maybe find some way for to relax you before bed?” he suggests, with a salacious smirk.

Under the covers, Ignis tweaks his nipple, making him jolt. “I’m under _guard_ , Gladio, _at all times_. Do _not_ tease me.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Gladio’s thumb brushes over Ignis’ cheek. “We’ll resolve this soon. Don’t worry about it.”

Tired, and not yet willing to explain his new theory, Ignis nods. “I’ll try. It is difficult, when one’s life is in danger.”

“Well, at least we have guards for that.”

They lay in silence for a few minutes, until Gladio sighs. “I need to go, but you should take a day off, okay? Do something relaxing. You’ll be safe here.”

“Easier said than done, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve left a lot of books here, and you always complain about not having time to read for fun. Pick one and go for it.”

Both of them enjoy the classics, though Gladio has a better mind for esoteric knowledge for fashion and long-passed traditions. But as Gladio’s other reading material leans towards trashy, bodice-ripper romance, Ignis keeps his face neutral and polite. “I’m not sure your reading material is per my tastes.”

Gladio shrugs, which moves Ignis slightly. “I’ve got some mystery books that’ll keep you occupied. They’re hard to put down.”

“Ah.” Ignis didn’t know that Gladio read mysteries. “That sounds agreeable.”

“Great,” Gladio says, leaning in to give Ignis another kiss, before pulling away and out of bed.

He finds the books he thinks Ignis will like before he goes, and soon it’s just Ignis and Ulric in the rooms. The book is, as promised, a gripping tale. It is the first of a serial about a middle-aged spinster detective, and as Ignis expected for one of Gladio’s books, includes quite a lot of sex. But the mystery is engaging, the setting believable, and the characters phenomenal. He is thoroughly distracted until he feels a slight tingle under his skin.

When he checks it to see, it says, _Kinda?_

Ignis is too sleep-deprived to deal with this, but he must. _What do you mean by ‘kinda’?_

The response this time is, at least, quick. _I didn’t mean to stalk you._

Ulric is still present, and approaches Ignis to read over his shoulder when it is obvious that he has received a response. Seeing the affirmation, as tentative as it is, he taps his ear to communicate with the other Glaives. Distantly, Ignis hears him command that if the would-be assassin is found, he absolutely must be brought in alive. He’s grateful, suddenly, to Ulric. The thought that his last and long-awaited for soulmate might be killed while he is trying to sort this out leaves him cold. And indeed, that they might not have realized until it was too late who his stalker is makes him queasy.

With a bit more consideration, Ignis writes, _What did you mean to do?_

Half an hour passes before the next response. Ignis abandons the book, which while good, cannot distract him from this now.

His soulmate writes, _I wasn’t trying to scare you._

Ignis reminds himself that he doesn’t know his soulmate, and his soulmate does not know him. And if the bits they do know have all been truth so far, his soulmate has good reason to hide both himself and his reasoning.

He takes a deep breath, and tries to imagine the life of a boy who grows up in Niflheim under the thumb of the Empire. Of what there could lead a boy to grow up to assassinate the Emperor, to be the one to take on that task. The assassination which has led to the first ceasefire between Niflheim and Lucis in the past 150 years. They have, for the first time in living memory, a breather from what has been constant fighting. Optimistically, they may have an opportunity to stop the war entirely. The rumors of the Niflheim’s new leader, Aranea Highwind, paint her as a formidable woman who led the resistance of Niflheim.

His soulmate might even know her. What a boon that could be for diplomatic relations.

His soulmate made the kill, in the Emperor’s private chambers, and leapt from the Niflheim palace, and somehow managed to survive the escape. The details of the coup are not yet available to Lucis, but even knowing the basics, Ignis would have classified the assassination mission as a suicide mission if he had been the strategist behind the plan.

But he lived. He lived, and wrote to Iggy while injured and drugged, asking for reassurances that he did the right thing.

Twirling his pen, Ignis considers and just as quickly dismisses some possible responses, and settles on, _I thought that an assassin was trying to kill me_.

This time, very quickly, _I’m not trying to kill you_.

The door bangs open, and Ulric and Ignis are on their feet, only to marginally relax as Noctis and Gladio come barreling in.

“You couldn’t send a text or anything?” Gladio grumbles, stalking over to the couch. “I couldn’t even see your words with my tattoo. Noct had to show me.”

“I was waiting for my suspicions to be confirmed before I said anything,” Ignis replies.

“Ulric, have you—?”

“I’ve given commands to all officers that if the target is found, he is to be brought in alive only.”

Noctis shudders a bit. “Well, good thing we found this out now rather than later.”

“Good thing,” Gladio repeats, the sound landing uncomfortably among them.

“Now what?” Noctis says. “Our soulmate is here in Insomnia…”

“The best way to allay our fears would be to arrange a meeting, if our soulmate is amenable. We would have to be careful, but having the man who assassinated the Emperor here in Insomnia is an opportunity.” A thought to investigate later; did their soulmate willingly leave Niflheim, or was he a scapegoat? Niflheim has been frustratingly quiet while they rebuild, and their defense still too powerful to risk angering them through an attack. Would bringing in their soulmate to the Citadel, as much as they would like to have their last soulmate with them, worsen or better their relations with the new government of Niflheim?

Ignis hovers the pen over his arm—what would convince a skittish, possibly paranoid, resistance fighter to meet with him?

What can Ignis say to convince his soulmate to come talk to him?

…

Prompto fucks up only after a couple of months in Insomnia and just a month of recon. It’s his fault—he should have been as diligent in Insomnia as he was in Gralea. But without the constant threat of MTs swooping down from the sky to execute any and all detractors, or worse, realizing that Prompto is an escaped lab specimen and recapturing him, he can’t help but grow sloppy. And it’s easy, in Insomnia, with its celebrations and festivities. The war hasn’t ended, but the Emperor is dead and Aranea called for an immediate ceasefire.

People in Insomnia have hope that the fighting is over. It’s pretty much all that cycles in the news here.

He only knows the name and face of one of his soulmates, Ignis Scientia, who is easy enough to find. Ignis is a public figure, being the Royal Advisor to the Crown Prince. He even has a pretty regular schedule that makes it easy for Prompto to set up in a few locations for observation.

Prompto wants to know more about his soulmate, and he also wants to see who their other soulmates are. After about a week and a half of recon, Prompto begins to worry. Ignis leaves his home for the Citadel, works there all day, sometimes spends time out in the city with either the Prince or the Prince’s Shield, and then goes home again. Prompto thought they all know each other, and were in close proximity.

Maybe the other two travel?

A thought occurs to Prompto. _Maybe they talk using the phone instead of on their skin, idiot._ _Because they don’t want you to know anything about them_.

After a month of recon, Prompto’s doubts grow. There are a few innocuous notes written on his skin, no less benign than they usually are, just things like _hurry up_ and _you home?_ and the like. It does, however, confirm that his soulmates _are_ all in the same place, but he never sees Ignis interacting with them in person. Maybe they live in his home? He wonders, in his more desperate moments, if he should he break in so he can finally meet them?

Ignis doesn’t always follow that schedule though, and Prompto isn’t always careful enough. He must have been seen. By Ignis, even; he had been walking on his route to the nearby grocery store, which does twice a week, when he peeled off into the crowd and was shortly picked up by a Citadel car. At that point, Prompto knew he needed to run.

And now he might need to retreat to Niflheim and reconsider his plan of meeting his soulmates, but he has to wait until the heat dies down a bit. The borders of Insomnia (and that stupid wall) are so tightly watched that Prompto doesn’t even think he could sneak through them.

So he hides. It’s hard because some of these Lucian soldiers have magic, and they move quickly. Discovery sometimes relies on the actions of a second. Prompto has had to fling himself into trash, and once into a stranger’s window, to not be seen.

He hides in the slums at first, but they’re soon crawling with Kingsglaives. Prompto recognizes a few of their faces, even, from some of the local bars. He didn’t realize they were _Glaives_. He would have avoided those bars if he knew. They don’t seem to recognize him—Prompto doesn’t stand out that much in the slums, there’s lots of immigrants there, he’s fine as long as he doesn’t talk. His accent is his biggest giveaway, and he can’t hide it no matter how hard he tries.

So he has to hide, dodge the city’s guards and their magical glaives, and wait it out. He foregoes sleep, bathing, and eating to stay out of sight.

It’s one of his sleepless nights. Prompto probably could sleep on the roof he was on, but the grime on his skin is starting to get to him. And for just a short time during the night, a chill on the wind carried a scent that reminded him of home, and he wants to stay awake to pretend for a while.

So he’s awake when his Ignis’s words seep into appearance on his skin, asking if he’s been stalking him.

Prompto stares at the words, black and pretty, and blurs into movement to change his location.

 _He doesn’t know where I am now_ , Prompto thinks, even as he races across down alleyways, ducking through the darkness and avoiding easy line of sights. _He came to that conclusion some other way_ , but he felt safer, winding through the city at random, to throw off any tails. He ends up grosser than he was before, fresh sweat mixing with the old and dirt, but he cares less now.

He agonizes for too long on how to respond, and settles on a non-answer hours later, after he pickpockets someone’s phone for a few minutes and checks over the Lucian definition of stalking. Prompto grimaces as he reads, nervously pulling a thread out of his already threadbare shirt. His actions can be read as stalking here in Insomnia, but he always kept an eye out for his friends when he was in Gralea! They felt safer, with him keeping an eye out for Loyalists and MTs. There were more times than he could keep track of, that his sniping skills saved his friends’ lives. That was Prompto’s role in the Resistance—watchful, protective, and deadly.

But in Insomnia, stalking is a crime. Stalkers frighten people, and even hurt them. Prompto isn’t that, didn’t mean that, but by the definition, he kinda is. So that’s what he responds with, hours later, _Kinda?_

The response is quick. Prompto tries to reassure Ignis that he didn’t mean to stalk him, that he didn’t mean to scare him, but can’t explain what it was he actually wanted to do. It’s too different here, in Insomnia. Obviously he isn’t trying to kill his soulmate, or hurt him, or anything, because he didn’t do anything. He just was at a far distance with his camera—

Oh.

Prompto thinks back to how that might have looked, if he had seen the scene. No sniper would use a handgun for an assassination, but the camera is metal and reflective. Someone could think it was a gun, easy, especially if they were far away.

And… he is an assassin. Prompto snipes people, and he’s good at it. Those are his preferred vantage spots, even when protecting his friends.

Ignis thought he was going to die.

This is confirmed, shortly, when Ignis writes him that exact sentiment. Prompto quickly reassures him otherwise, and waits anxiously, but gets nothing back for almost an hour.

_How about we forego the stalking in favor of meeting face to face?_

Ignis wants to meet him! He actually wants to meet him! _Wait_ , Prompto thinks, _what about our other soulmates?_

Where _are_ they? Ignis literally spends no time with anyone outside of work. And Prompto knows their soulmates are around, which means—

Prompto could smack himself. They’re people Ignis works with. Of course.

And they must be around, right now. Reading this.

Carefully, Prompto writes, _why do you want to meet?_

He receives in response, quickly, _It is by far a better alternative to being stalked. And wouldn’t you say it’s about time?_

With a shaking hand and trying not to show it, Prompto writes, _And what do our other soulmates think of this?_

Minutes crawl by. Prompto has waited through worse, but it is still excruciating.

And then, _Why don’t we start with the two of us?_

The other two are with Ignis right _now_. And where is he? He gets up and moving, scanning the skyline, checking off the locations he knows Ignis would not be, while he is under threat of assassination.

He’d be under lockdown, with his rank. Not his house, obviously. Safe house? Maybe. But, this is Insomnia, and Ignis is the Royal Advisor to the Prince, so that just means—that means. Prompto eyes the horizon, calculating.

The Citadel.

…

The Lucians are still combing the city for him, but cold determination stamps out the fear that had gripped Prompto before.

He doesn’t get very far, though, before he realizes he desperately needs a shower or sight and smell alone will identify him. With the efficiency of a man who has been on the run for the majority of his life, he breaks into a nearby, empty house, uses their bathroom, steals some clothes, and cleans up all evidence of his presence. He nabs a beanie and jacket from a storefront a little ways away from it, and keeps going.

It’s good to have a plan again.

It would be better to dye his hair, honestly, and Prompto might depending on the timeline he needs to work with. But right now, he wants to catch a peek of who Ignis is with. He might find out the identity of his other soulmates.

Problem; the Citadel is huge. Multiple wings. Windowless rooms. Too much ground for him to cover before discovery.

It’s not unlike the Gralean Palace though. There are strategic points for where they would stash a man who presumably has an assassin after him.

The Lucian military forces wear black. It’s fancier than it looks—there’s subtle decorations, and lots of various textures. Sturdy. Protective. They’re good uniforms.

Makes his t-shirt and jeans stand out way too much for him to get close to the Citadel without being caught. He’ll need a way to get close without being marked as suspicious. Prompto pickpockets a cellphone and pretends to play with it while keeping an eye on passing guards. They’re all in pairs at least… he could probably take two out at once, but that was unnecessarily risky… Group of three… four… two, again… two, two, three, and entire car full, two…

And finally one. Taller and broader than Prompto, but alone and relaxed. Has his black uniform jacket thrown over his shoulder. Looks off duty.

Perfect.

And even more perfect—his target went and took an alleyway on his own.

Prompto makes short work of knocking him out. He has his gun; he could knock him unconscious with a hit from it, but he doesn’t want to hurt anyone here. Better to use a chokehold to cut off the arteries. When his target is a little ways away from the entrance of the alley, Prompto strikes, wrapping his arm tight away his target’s throat from behind while simultaneously pulling him backwards to get him off his feet and off balance.

His target is stronger than expected, but Prompto gives no leeway, and he knows how much force he can use to get his desired effect quickly. His free hand cups the back of his head and pushes his target’s throat into his debilitating hold. Soon, the man goes limp against him, and Prompto holds it for a couple more seconds to make sure he’s not faking.

He’s not. And his pulse is fine, his throat undamaged. This isn’t Niflheim; he doesn’t want his target dead, no matter how novel that notion is. Prompto pulls him to the shadows, and strips off his clothes. Shirt, jacket, pants. He takes his shoes too, because the size is similar enough that it won’t trip him up, and it’s worth it to pull off the disguise. Prompto learned from other resistance fighters that shoes are too often a deadly giveaway.

Prompto doesn’t want to leave the guy almost naked in the alleyway though. He doesn’t have time to do much more than get his own (thankfully baggy) pants onto him, as well as wrap him in the jacket. He leaves his shirt too, since he doesn’t need it.

He makes sure the target is well-hidden in the alleyway, and once that’s done, he goes.

The pants are too long, but he tucks them into the boots. The jacket covers the length of the shirt. And it has a hood that obscures his hair entirely and most of his face. Good.

Prompto goes in, affecting a stance similar to the ones other have, though he realizes a little too late that his uniform is actually different from the one most of these soldiers have. But there is a card key in the uniform’s pocket, and he’s too close to turn back now without looking suspicious. He hands it to the guards at the gate, he wave him on in.

“They called you back in right away, huh, Ulric? Bastards never give you a break,” says one of the guards as he nods him along, and Prompto gives a silent, tired nod in return.

Prompto walks right into the Citadel. _I might need to talk to Ignis about security_ , Prompto thinks wildly. _They just let a Niflheim assassin just walk right in_.

Now the hard part; locating where they stashed Ignis. Probably his room, if he has one. He should. Or his soulmates’, if they live here?

Prompto has an obvious Gralean accent when he speaks Lucian. He can’t ask anyone without being immediately discovered. But no one addresses him—most people walk by with a nod. With not a small amount of concern, Prompto realizes that the uniform he stole is different from everyone else’s, but no one bothers or addresses him. He continues.

Ignis Scientia is a Count, and also holds official position in court. His room would be in a wing not too far from the royalty… so if Prompto follows the more ostentatious designs and decorations, he should be in the right direction. He walks with purpose, even if he has no idea where to go, but eventually the busy hallways and conference rooms fade as he gets closer to what looks like some obscenely wealthy version of a living area. It’s not as bad as the Palace, not even the throne room, from what Prompto could see. There’s not gold everywhere, at least. The color scheme and designs are more muted too—Prompto even likes it.

Prompto turns a corner, sees a man dressed in a uniform just like the one he stole, and ducks back behind the corner. _Found it_ , he thinks. Wasting no time, he exits through the window, and crawls over to the window of the room he was guarding.

There’s a window. And trees. Prompto makes short work of finding a location for the best vantage point. _Those dumbasses_ , Prompto thinks. _I’m definitely going to have to talk to Ignis about that_. There’s another guard by the window, again in a similar uniform. Prompto spies a third one sitting on a couch inside. There’s a third man, much taller and broader and bigger than the others, but he’s not wearing a uniform like the others.

Is that one of his other soulmates? Prompto leans forward minutely, not that it helps. The man has a scar on his face, and his hair is worn fairly long, though the sides are short. He has a tattoo on his arms, but Prompto can’t tell what of. He looks relaxed, but tired.

Prompto can answer one question at least. The man’s arms are crossed—he has a clear view of the top of the man’s right forearm. Prompto is not left-handed, but he’s had to learn to use his left hand enough that it won’t be obvious. And he’s running out of room on his left arm anyway. He writes, keeping an eye on the window, _where would we meet?_

And sees, even through the small window, tiny script show up on the man’s arm.

 _Soulmate found_ , Prompto thinks, dizzy with success. _Only one more to find._

His words cause a bit of commotion. The guards stay where they are, but the man gets up and moves out of sight.

He’s talking to others. Prompto needs a new vantage point to get a look.

He’s quiet and quick, and hidden shortly again, and this time—this time he can see Ignis.

Prompto’s gut twists in guilt. Ignis looks tired, and stressed, with visible bags under his eyes even with the distance. He is not wearing a suit, but a rumpled shirt and sweatpants. _He’s been in lockdown this entire time_ , Prompto thinks with worry. He knows the necessity, has had to hide away himself for weeks at a time to throw the Empire off his trail, and hates that he’s been the cause of it for his soulmate.

And now, Prompto can see one more man, who immediately sets off alarm bells in his head, making him squeeze even tighter into his hiding spot. It’s just a man, though, and maybe Prompto’s last soulmate. He’s about Prompto’s height, dark, messy hair and—

—holy shit, that’s the fucking Crown Prince of Lucis.

 _This was a bad idea_.

Prompto needs to leave, but he can’t move. He’s watching his soulmates discuss the mark they _all_ have on their arm, the Prince included. He can even see the ones on their left arms, too. They’re calm. It’s a discussion, and they all know each other well. They all love each other, too. Prompto can tell—he’s observed enough people to know when they're genuine with their affection. They’re all listening to each other, and they’re casual in their physical contact. The big guy keeps touching Ignis’ shoulder and back, and the Prince is leaning in his personal space. Their arms are touching, they’re standing so close together.

They don’t need him. Why would they even want him? Why would the gods or some quirk of biology make it so that they would end up with someone like Prompto?

This can’t be. He can’t be the Prince’s soulmate.

He needs to get out of there.

Prompto leaves. He doesn’t bother with the front door this time, opting to go over the wall. He makes it to the street on the other side, when a wave of exhaustion and dizziness hits him. _Magic_ , Prompto thinks, heart beating sluggishly while he fights to remain standing. He sees his attacker—a woman wearing the same uniform he is—pulls out his gun to fire, and—

—he aims for her leg and pulls the trigger—

—but his arm is yanked up, the shot firing harmlessly and silently into the air. He collapses, and the arm wrenching his arm up is all that’s keeping him fully off the ground. The status effect is taking away his consciousness, but he hears, “Damn, that is one good silencer on that gun…” before he fades away.

 


	3. Terms of Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto stays on his own terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are so sweet, thanks for all of the comments! If I dont' respond to yours personally, know I still appreciate them all but don't want to write just "thank you" over and over. 
> 
> A couple things to note--this chapter is slightly longer than the other two. Yay! But I haven't started writing the next chapter yet, so it probably won't be posted in a couple days like I've been doing. I'm super excited about it and this story in general (and I've graduated so I'm no longer in school!), so hopefully it won't take me too long.
> 
> Enjoy~~~ I'm really excited about this chapter.

Prompto comes to slowly. He normally is awake at a moment’s notice, especially if something is wrong, but he’s—comfortable. Warm. Clean. And tired. Why is he so tired? His thoughts slosh around sluggishly in his head, and he can’t recall what is happening that he’s like this.

 _That’s a bad sign_ , he thinks, and struggles to wake. He opens his eyes, crusty from sleep, but the room is too bright. Prompto squeezes them back shut.

A voice in Lucian with a crisp Tenebraean accent cuts through the darkness. “Awake, are you?”

“No,” Prompto says.

There’s a surprised but pleasant chuckle. “Indeed. Well, when you do feel like joining the land of the conscious, I’d be happy to answer some of your questions.”

“Backwards,” Prompto mutters.

“I beg your pardon?”

Prompto groans. He can’t think. This is all wrong, and hard to keep going in Lucian. “You’ve got it backwards. You’re supposed to ask me questions. Not answer mine.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, that would be true if you were a prisoner to interrogate. As it is, you are less of a prisoner, and more… a guest we must be cautious with.”

That makes no sense. Prompto forces his eyes open. It’s still too bright, but now he can see why. The room has bright paint and is clean, even. It looks like a medical facility for people with money. For people who are acknowledged as people; the paint is white, but softer than the sterile tone that the Empire used in its experimental facilities. It makes the room warmer and calmer. Sunlight streams through the windows, which lack any sort of bars. Prompto looks towards the voice and it’s—it’s Ignis.

Ignis smiles, a bit. He looks handsome. And unsure. “Hello.”

Prompto swallows. His mouth is dry, and not just because of nerves. “Hi.”

“Do you need some water?”

Prompto does, but he doesn’t want anything from someone he doesn’t actually know. Although—he realizes he is on a bed, strapped down by the wrists, ankles, and around the waist. He curses himself for taking too long to notice. It’s been years since he has last been restrained, but the feeling of hopelessness and resignation never left him.

These bindings are firm but cushioned—they aren’t the freezing, bare metal of the Niflheim ones, that bit into his skin and made him bleed—but he breaks out into a cold sweat all the same. Flashes of clean, cold, terrifying laboratories cross his mind, back when he was younger, when he didn’t know anything, but his expected panic doesn’t come, his body still too sluggish and everything soft and fuzzy around the edges.

There’s an intravenous needle in his arm, and Prompto stares at the bag of clear liquid that’s being forcibly injected into him. It could be anything.

There’s nothing he can do about it either.

“Those are nutrients and water. You show several signs of malnourishment, which is rather unsurprising, considering…” He trails off, not finishing the thought. Prompto thinks he probably is guessing right. “You also seem to have not been eating well these past several days, rather understandably.”

“Is it drugged?” Prompto asks, when his voice is strong enough.

Ignis hesitates. “It is,” he admits. “You have proven yourself quite capable, and we wanted a chance to talk to you before you made an escape attempt.”

“Talk,” Prompto echoes. His head is heavy on the pillow (which is so soft he didn’t know they made pillows this soft), and he rolls it to stare at Ignis which he hopes emphasizes his point. He feels vulnerable and open, forced onto his back like this. He thinks of coeurls gutting the soft bellies of spiracorns while they’re down and vulnerable, and shudders.

Ignis sighs. “I also wanted a chance to talk to my soulmate, who’s proven quite elusive, and has caused a great deal of trouble this past week.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Prompto croaks out. “Water?” He’s admitted to drugging him. Not much else they can do to his water, so he might as well.

“Ah, yes, of course.”

Ignis does something to the bed so it props him up, and he feels slightly less vulnerable for it, but with the restraints, Prompto can’t drink from the glass. The water cup as a straw, and Ignis holds it securely for Prompto to sip. His mouth isn’t that gross, so he hasn’t been out for longer than a few hours.

“Now, we do have some questions for you, but I am happy to answer anything else you might want to know…?”

“Take off the restraints,” Prompto says immediately, or as immediate as he can with his face feeling fuzzy and numb through the drugs. His breathing quickens. “Please,” he adds, when Ignis doesn’t say anything.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Not right now.”

“You said that I’m not a prisoner?” Prompto protests, spasmodically clenching his fists.

“And you’re not. So far there are no charges being levied against you, at this time. And given your recent role in political events, it would be unwise to… but you are an assassin who knocked out a Kingsglaive—” oh _fuck_ , that was a Kingsglaive? _Idiot_. No wonder so few others had a similar uniform, and no wonder they caught him. “—stole his clothes to infiltrate the Citadel apparently to continue stalking me as you’ve done for the past few weeks, we can’t really afford to take any chances.”

Prompto squeezes his eyes shut. “I left him with my clothes. So he wouldn’t be cold.”

There is another pause, but Prompto doesn’t want to open his eyes. He doesn’t want to be here. “Yes, he noticed.”

What does Lucis do to its prisoners? Or its ‘guests’? For a bizarre, horrible second, Prompto misses Niflheim. He always knew what would happen to him if he was caught. They wouldn’t have even tried to question him—Prompto would have been an example. A tool to use against Aranea. If they didn’t torture him to death, and leave his mutilated remains somewhere for Aranea to find, they would have continued the MT treatments until Prompto became inhuman and daemonic.

And then they would have forced him to fight his friends, and they would have had to kill him.

Here, he has no idea, and Ignis isn’t going to help him. Ignis says he’s not a prisoner, but they have complete control over him. They can do whatever they want—their words mean nothing. “What’s going to happen now?”

“We talk, if you’re up to it.”

What could Ignis possibly want to talk to Prompto about? He has nothing in common with him, or their other soulmates. Pulling a bit on his wrist restraints, he says, “Fine. Talk.” The restraints cover almost his entire forearm, which makes up for the little give of the padding on the inside. Shifting his feet around reveal the same about his ankle restraints.

Getting out of them would be tricky. There’s also the one around his waist, but that one isn’t tight at all. He could slip out of that one, if he got out of the others. It’s seems to be there to stop him from gaining leverage he needs to get out of the others…

“Well,” Ignis says. “What’s your name?”

There’s little reason to use a fake name. They won’t care about his laboratory designation. He took care in choosing a name for himself, once he escaped the labs. He likes it, _Prompto_. He fought and killed for his right to have it. To be a person.

He doesn’t want his soulmate to call him by anything else.

“Prompto. My name’s Prompto.”

“Prompto,” Ignis says. It is not—it is not everything Prompto would have hoped, if he was naïve enough to have such a hope. Nothing clicks into place. Heaing his name from his soulmate’s lips feels right, but no more so than hearing his name at all. “Well, then. It’s nice to meet you finally. Even though these are not the best of circumstances.”

“What,” Prompto mutters, gazing absently around the room, “you haven’t met all of your soulmates while they were tied down on a bed?” The drugs are making it consistently difficult to focus. The fog in his head isn’t lightening up at all, and it’s distressing him.

Ignis stammers, and Prompto swivels his head to face him. He’s a bit red, just a shade on his sharp cheeks. It’s not cold in here, so why— _oh_.

Prompto flushes cold, a new fear curling around through his limbs. Ignis hasn’t touched him at all, not even when helping him drink. But he can, if he wants, and Prompto can’t stop him. And there is no one else here. But Prompto doesn’t know how Insomnia works, not really. Someone being here doesn’t mean Prompto would be safe. They might not stop him. They might even want to join in.

That’s what would happen in Niflheim. That’s what did happen, before Prompto escaped from the labs.

Unaware of Prompto’s sickening realization, Ignis clears his throat. “It is nice to meet you. We have been curious about you for a long time. It is unfortunate that we were not in a position to freely exchange information and get to know you better.”

Prompto breathes. It’s hard enough to keep it together through the drugs without panicking. He needs to stay calm. Ignis is still relaxed into his chair. He doesn’t look like he’s going to move, and those aren’t the words of someone who’s about to rape him. And panicking is exhausting, on top of the drugs slowing him down. “You could have. What was stopping you?”

“Security,” Ignis answers immediately. “Well-founded concerns, it would seem. Had you meant me ill will, I suspect I would not be here to have this conversation.”

Ah. Prompto can clearly see why Ignis wanted to talk now. For all of his talk of how they weren’t going to hurt him, and that he’s not a prisoner, Ignis wants revenge. Prompto tenses, but at least this is something he can make sense of. He takes a shuddering breath, trying not to let his fear show through. He doesn’t know what Ignis plans on doing to him, but… well. Perhaps his previous thoughts weren’t that far off the mark. Is that standard practice for Lucis?

Or, and it makes Prompto sick to think of it, is it because they’re soulmates? Maybe they would have just executed him, but Ignis saved him for himself.

… Wait. Where are their other soulmates?

Breathe. He must get through this. They’re not here, so they’re not important right now.

Ignis leans forward suddenly, and Prompto flinches. “Are you alright?”

“What do you want from me?” Prompto asks. He misses Niflheim again, and he hates it. At least, when they catch you, they don’t waste time pretending they’re not going to hurt you. They don’t put you in a soft room and lie. “Just do it already.”

Ignis doesn’t move out of his seat. He doesn’t start touching Prompto. He tilts his head, and looks puzzled. “I’m not going to do anything to you,” he says, confusion coloring his tone. “I just want to talk.”

Nothing has ever sounded more like a lie. “Fine.”

There’s a pause. “Is there anything you would like to know?”

Did Prompto not just ask a question? “Where are our other soulmates?”

“Ah,” Ignis says. “So you were able to see them?”

Did they not know what he was doing in the Citadel? “No,” he lies. “I wasn’t able to find you before I tried to leave.”

“Really? How odd, considering the Kingsglaive said you were on the tree outside my window for some time.”

 _Fuck_ , that was a mistake. So they know that Prompto has at least seen his other soulmates. “So what if I did?”

The seconds crawl along before Ignis asks, “Do you have any questions about the others?”

It’s so obviously a trap. But… he doesn’t know what they’re planning on doing with him. If they… if they keep him, to their own ends… knowing their names might help. And he needs to confirm his observations. “What are their names?”  
“Their names are Gladiolus Amicitia, and…” Ignis trails off, gaze settling on something in the distance. But he continues with, a bit decisively, “Noctis Lucis Caelum.”

Amicitia. The Shields of the Kings. Warriors, mostly, and deadly in battle. Prompto can’t fight that. The Prince and Ignis are unknown to him in skill level, there’s a chance he could fight them, but he cannot fight an Amicitia. He doesn’t stand a chance. He’ll be ripped apart.

Prompto needs to get out of here. Coming to Insomnia was a mistake. This was a mistake. He needs to—

“Calm down,” Ignis says, voice close. Prompto flinches, and subsequently tenses as Ignis’s hand lightly touches his. Frowning, Ignis continues, a bit quietly, “Surely you recognized Noctis? Then why…?” His hand squeezes Prompto’s, just a bit, and he flinches again. Ignis lets go immediately and leans back into his chair. “We’re _not_ going to hurt you,” he says with a finality that reminds Prompto of Aranea. A wave of longing washes over him as suddenly completely as a Niflheim storm in winter. “Though I suppose you have no reason to believe me, but I will say it regardless: you are safe here. No harm will come to you.”

“Then let me go,” Prompto tries again without any hope.

Ignis sighs, and Prompto already knows the answer. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

With no other option, Prompto turns his head away from Ignis in defiance, and steadfastly ignores his attempts at further conversations. Prompto’s determination to ignore him only fails him when he winces at Ignis’ question about the scars on his right wrist. The scars that adorn the right wrists of him and all of his soulmates. He refuses to answer, but he fears what Ignis reads from his wince at the question. What that tells him.

Ignis quiets but doesn’t leave. It would be too much to hope that they would (be stupid enough to) leave him without a guard.

It’s not hard to fall asleep, not with the sedatives pulling him under. With nothing else to do, he lets the sedatives do their thing.

…

Gladio pretends to read his book, but the figure on the bed occupies his attention. The kid’s too skinny and scrawny on the medical bed, even though their best guess for his age is the same as Noctis’, and they’re even a similar height. He can’t turn around in the bed, but his entire body is tilted to the right, away from Gladio, as much as it can be. If there were no restraints, Gladio expects the kid would be curled up defensively while he slept.

Gladio can’t blame him. They’ve only heard rumors about the extent of what happens in Niflheim, which is made worse by what their intelligence can confirm. They have no information on their soulmate. Prompto. Their intelligence agents haven’t even found a last name yet, citing caution in alerting the current Niflheim leader that they have Prompto in their custody. Which, as understandable as it is, Gladio’s eyes stray to his soulmate’s covered right wrist, where he knows is a mess of scars. Scars that only could be self-inflicted. Scars that all three of them have there as well and have for almost a decade.

The kid twitches, his expression contorting in his sleep, and Gladio’s book hangs uselessly in his hands as he abandons the pretense and watches his soulmate’s face while some dream or nightmare causes his brows the tense and mouth to twitch.

The kid— _Prompto_ , his soulmate, they know his name finally—has moved a bit during his sleep before, but hasn’t woken up yet. It’s been happening more often while Gladio’s been sitting there, now that they’ve taken him off the sedatives. He wasn’t happy when he woke up long enough to talk to Iggy, but they don’t want to keep him on the sedatives for too long and risk the side effects.

And it would be nice to talk to their soulmate without him being really high.

His soulmate whimpers, and lolls his head on the pillow. Gladio puts down the book and waits. He doesn’t want to say anything, because there’s no reason for him to wake up yet if he’s not ready.

But he is waking up, eyes blinking open. He’s moving as much as he can in his restraints, the movements starting to become jerky and panicky. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Gladio says, reaching a hand to Prompto’s hair. “You’re safe here—” he gets out, his hand making contact with his soulmate’s hair, which is a little greasy from being in medical bed for a couple days, when Prompto’s eyes snap open. They stare at each other for a second of silence.

In the next, Gladio is up and backing away from the screaming, thrashing form of his soulmate.

His soulmate’s screams pierce into his brain, desperate and furious, like he’s dying. Like the final screams he hears from people getting torn apart by daemons. Prompto can barely move in the restraints, they’re meant to stop him from getting out, hurting others, and hurting himself, but that last one’s still possible. Just as Gladio remembers himself, as he gets himself to move again, he rushes forward to stop him from doing just that, but before he reaches Prompto, there’s a sickening _pop_ , and his soulmate’s screams change from furious to wounded.

And just to top it all off, he starts sobbing.

He’s not thrashing anymore, thank the Six. Gladio suspects it was his shoulder that popped out of place. He’ll need help to pop it back in, but he’s a little leery about touching him now. Iggy didn’t mention that Prompto reacted badly to touch, but Gladio would bet his family’s honor that it has something to do with it.

Which… has implications he doesn’t want to think about right now.

A glaive shows up. It’s Nyx, asking, “What’s happened?” and a couple more show up in Gladio’s periphery, but they’re more discreet. Prompto’s breathing hard, practically panting, his eyes squeezed shut and his chest heaving. Gladio signals to the others to stay back.

“He’s dislocated his shoulder,” Gladio tells him. He’s glad it’s Nyx here. He’s sparred and worked with him a lot, and trusts him. And Nyx isn’t going to hold a grudge against the kid for knocking him out and stealing his clothes—he’s probably impressed, honestly. Gladio is, too. “We need to put it back into place.”

Prompto’s listening, even if his eyes are still closed and he’s not looking at them. At Gladio’s words, he starts struggling again. Not the thrashing from before, but enough that Gladio has to lean forward and stop him. He doesn’t want to. He knows that this will give Prompto no reason to trust him, but he’s on the way of hurting himself terribly. But he has to; he places his hand on Prompto’s skinny chest and presses it firmly enough to stop him from struggling and hurting himself further. Underneath his palm, he can feel how hard Prompto’s trying to breathe. And also his ribs.

“Prompto,” he says slowly, and as non-threateningly as possible. It doesn’t do the trick; Prompto flinches back at his voice, and flinches again at the pain in his shoulder. Gladio continues regardless, “You’ve dislocated your shoulder. We’re going to get a doctor to pop it back into place and help treat it. Okay?”

Prompto shakes his head. His head’s turned into the pillow, visible eye opening and staring at Gladio. Still breathing too hard, and voice hoarse, he says, “Let me go.”

They do need to get him out of the restraints, that much is obvious. Gladio’s not sure how much of what just happened was because of them or his touch, but both are clear factors, and Iggy said that he asked a few times for them to let him go. “We can’t let you go,” he says, and does his best to ignore the impulse to reach out with his other hand to soothe his soulmate at his pathetic whimper, “but we can get you out of those restraints. We need to for your arms, to set your shoulder. And I’ll discuss alternatives to keep you secure but not physically restrained like this.”

Prompto doesn’t move. His breathing is still heavy, but it’s evening out. His gaze pierces Gladio, desperate and wild. The redness of his eyes from crying makes the blue of his iris seem much more intense, and Gladio feels guilty for noticing such an unimportant detail. “You’ll get me out of the restraints?”

“We’ll get you out of the restraints,” Gladio promises. He means it, too.

His soulmate full-body shudders and Gladio can feel it through his hand. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” Gladio repeats. He waves Nyx over. “I’m going to release the restraints on your arms, and put some ice on your shoulder while we wait for the doctor. They’re going to bring you new pain medication as well, to help. But I can only do this so long as you cooperate—if you fight us, attack anyone, or try to escape, we’ll have to put the restraints back on.”

If Gladio weren’t so close to Prompto already, he wouldn’t see the fresh tears roll down the wet tracks on his face. He squeezes his eyes shut again, and says, “I’ll cooperate.”

Gladio doesn’t want to have to do this to his soulmate. He doesn’t. This isn’t how his first meeting with his soulmate should go. “Alright. Nyx, I’m releasing the arm restraints now.” Nyx silently takes up a position on the other side of the bed. Gladio releases the injured arm first, and leans over (— _and that was a flinch, his soulmate_ is _afraid of touch, fuck whoever’s responsible for that_ —) to undo the other one.

True to his word, his soulmate doesn’t try to escape or attack them. Now with his arms free, he curls in around his shoulder as best he can, with the other restraints still on.

He looks pathetic. Gladio wishes he could reassure him as easily as he does Iggy or Noct, by lying down with him and taking him into his arms. But the kid’s terrified, and touching him would make this worse.

Gladio steps back when the nurse and doctor come in, stand by while the painfully set the shoulder back into place, watch as they try to inform Prompto in what they’re doing and moving on when he keeps his eyes shut and ignores them. If it were Ignis or Noctis, he would be next to them, holding their hand.

But it’s not. It’s Prompto, their missing and last soulmate, and they have to learn an entirely new way of being someone’s soulmate.

Gladio takes a deep breath. Baby steps. He motions to the glaives on standby, and leaves the room.

He told Prompto he would get him out of the restraints, and he meant it. Gladio will, and he knows just how to do it.

His father is not hard to find—he’s either in his office or the King’s office, and he is now, thankfully, in his office.

“Lord Amicitia,” Gladio greets as he steps into the room. His dad looks up from his paperwork, and there’s no one else here. He shuts the door behind him. “Dad.”

“Gladio,” Clarus says. He eyes him critically; there is very little Gladio has been able to actively keep from his father. He’s very perceptive, but Gladio doesn’t intend to hide anything right now. This’ll go better if he doesn’t. “What’s wrong?” he asks a bit sharply.

“My soulmate had a panic attack when he woke up ten minutes ago, and managed to dislocate his shoulder in his struggles against his restraints.”

His father’s eyebrows raise. Clarus puts down his pen. “That’s… alarming.”

“Yeah,” Gladio says, a little quietly. “It wasn’t the easiest thing to watch.”

His father waves him over, and Gladio gratefully goes to sit with him, to have his father’s hand comfortingly on his shoulder. He leans into it a little. “Are you alright?” his dad asks. “What happened?”

“Nothing bad. Not to me, anyway. He—Prompto—he was just sleeping, and when he woke up—he wasn’t on sedatives anymore, and we knew he didn’t like the restraints, but Iggy didn’t think—I mean, I don’t think it was just that, he freaks out when he’s touched too, I don’t—” Gladio stops. “We really don’t know what his life in Niflheim was like. I don’t think… I think it’s worse than we’ve ever thought.”

His dad gently pulls him closer until Gladio’s leaning against him in a one-armed hug. “How so?”

How so indeed. All Gladio has is vague suspicions, but he shares them anyway. “He’s been restrained before. Maybe a lot, before. But he’s definitely not trained on how to handle capture. He’s not—he has no training on how to handle stress during capture or interrogation. I don’t think he was a soldier,” he confesses uneasily. “We don’t know who the resistance fighters are yet, but they’re definitely not a military faction. And he doesn’t like being touched, and that’s—I’m afraid of what that might mean.”

“When things calm down,” Clarus says, “we can find a counselor he can talk to.”

“There’s no way that’s going to happen for a while. But,” Gladio says, “I think we can make it easier. Right now. A little bit.”

His dad isn’t surprised. Gladio often comes to him for advice and suggestions, but he’s clearly leading up to something. “What do you suggest?”

“We take the restraints off,” Gladio says, pulling back to face his dad. “Find something less restrictive, or place him under heavy guard, but the restraints are freaking him out, and we can’t do this again. He’s acting like he thinks he’s going to die.”

“That’s not an unreasonable reaction. He _is_ a captive.”

“He’s not a prisoner,” Gladio defends, but it sounds weak to his own ears. Prompto isn’t a prisoner—he’s been technically arrested for trespassing, but there’s no current plans to charge him with anything. Not right now. It’s grounds to hold him, but they are going to let him go.

But… he’s being held against his will, obviously. Restraints are a terrifying business, too, especially if Prompto has been restrained before. And he’s their soulmate, but he doesn’t know them, just like they know nothing about him. They have no reason to believe he didn’t mean harm to Ignis while stalking him, but he also has no reason to think they mean him no harm now.

“Is that a difference that would matter to him?” Clarus asks. “The delineation you’re noting marks future intent. The now is the same, as far as he is concerned. He is immobilized, unarmed, and at his enemies’ mercy, whose intentions are unknown to him and untrustworthy.”

“I guess it would be too much for him to believe us when we say we don’t want to hurt him,” Gladio admits.

“And people who are under another’s power are never free from influence or coercion. They have no choice.”

“Then maybe we _should_ let him go.”

“He was stalking your soulmate,” his dad adds mildly.

“He wasn’t hurting anyone. Maybe we could have met with him on equal ground. Now it’s just—” Gladio stops. “It feels like he won’t ever be able to trust us after this, and I honestly wouldn’t blame him.” They reflect on that in silence. “I told him I’d get the restraints taken off. I authorized the removal of his arm restraints for the doctor to set his shoulder. I want him to trust us, and so we need to remove the restraints and figure something else out.”

Clarus nods and stands up. “I’ll authorize a heavier guard. I can’t imagine he’ll enjoy that much more, but we can move him to a secured room that he can freely move around in. It’s not the safest option, given that he _is_ an assassin, but from what Titus has told me, the Kingsglaive is excited about your soulmate, so I’m sure they’re up for the challenge.”

That surprises a chuckle out of Gladio. “Yeah,” he says, smiling a bit. “Nyx was saying that he was impressed that such skinny runt managed to get the jump on him.”

“It is impressive, though be sure to tell Glaive Ulric that spars with our… guest are not allowed.”

“I’ll let him know,” Gladio says, smiling a lot this time, as he stands up. He hugs his dad before he goes, whispers, “Thanks, dad,” and leaves to return to his soulmate.

And to prove that he makes good on his promises.

…

Nyx’s throat hurts. Nothing was wrong with it, Libertus checked it already, but getting choked to unconscious leaves a big ass bruise even if the attacker’s a niff assassin who’s apparently good at non-lethal takedowns. And none of the other glaives were willing to heal it, with Drautos saying, “If you hadn’t been fool enough to let your guard down, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“It was the Niflheim assassin,” Nyx protested at the time, knowing it won’t do any good. His captain’s face remained unimpressed as expected. “It’s not like it was some random civilian. It was the guy who did our job for us!”

“No healing magic. Watch your back next time, Ulric.”

So Nyx’s throat hurts every time he swallows, even after a day, but he needs to be at the Citadel to help guard the guy who did it. Ordinarily, Nyx would want a chance to fight the guy properly, but he’ll never get that now. Since the guy’s _the_ Niflheim assassin, he’s too important for Nyx to beat up. And on top of all of that, he’s the soulmate the Prince and his royal harem, because clearly the Prince needs another one, so he’s completely off limits.

Their little assassin is completely restrained, too. There’s not much he could get up to like that, but at least one of them _has_ to be around when the Prince is visiting his choke-happy assassin of a soulmate, and the captain said under no circumstances were either the advisor or Shield allowed to be really alone when visiting. Whether they knew or not, at least one glaive had to be on standby. 

It’s mostly been an easy job. The assassin can’t do anything, restrained as he is, and he’s sedated for a while too. Luche was on duty when the assassin woke up for a while and spoke to Ignis, and while he alerted them through their comms to be on standby but, predictably, nothing happened.

Which ends up being more than can be said then when Nyx is on duty, watching while Gladio sits with the unconscious assassin. It’s boring, watching Gladio pretend to read. Occasionally, he abandons his book, and tentatively holds the assassin’s hand like the romantic he is, but only for a minute or two, before going back to pretending to read his book.

It’s quiet, until the assassin wakes up. Then everything goes to shit real quick.

Like Gladio, Nyx isn’t expecting the screams and the panic, and reacts too slowly to stop the assassin from hurting himself. He gets in the room after, Tredd and Axis waiting behind as backup. Nyx has no authority to override Gladio’s authority, and even if the man is a friend, questioning him in front of others will go over poorly. So he helps undo the restraints on the assassin, despite his misgivings, and taps his earpiece to relay his orders to the captain.

Then Gladio leaves. Nyx isn’t informed where or why, but it doesn’t impact his duty, so it doesn’t matter.  

Tredd and Axis enter the room by stay at the edges so as not to escalate the situation. Nyx stays by the assassin’s side as the nurse and doctor tend to him. The assassin allows it, quietly wincing as they put him in a sling. Then the doctor asks, “Is there anywhere else that hurts?”

The assassin is silent. The doctor chides gently, with a paternal air, “If you don’t tell us, we won’t know and be able to help. And we’re here to help.”

The assassin bites his bottom lip. It makes him look vulnerable, but it sets Nyx on edge. “My hip hurts. The right side.”

“Where? Here?” The doctor asks, lightly feeling around his hip. The assassin yelps, exclaims a rather fun expletive in niff that the doctor either understands or assumes to be affirmative. The doctor frowns. “Glaive Ulric,” he says. “I need to take off this waist restraint to fully examine his hip. If he’s sprained it, we need to treat it.”

“Very well,” Nyx says, signally to the others. Watching the assassin carefully, he undoes the restraint. The assassin does seem to be in pain, wincing and tense. The doctor pokes and prods, the assassin says when it hurts, and the doctor frowns even more. “Nurse, please come over here a moment,” and the nurse goes, and Nyx is forced away for a moment. Tredd comes closer to the doctor to make up for it, which turns out to be a mistake. They should have been more careful. This guy got in and out of the Gralean Palace and assassinated the Emperor, after all.

As it is, a moment is all it takes.

In a second, the assassin rips off the ankle restraints, grabbing the doctor by the throat to drag him bodily in front of him. There’s a flash of movement with Tredd, and the glaive’s on the ground, holding his face, and the assassin has his gun. “Don’t attack, or I’ll—” the assassin warns in his accented Lucian, holding up his stolen gun. Nyx and the other glaives has their weapons summoned and out, but with a civilian in the way, they can’t attack. And the assassin, as Nyx suspected is good—he has to be, to do what he’s done.

“It’s okay,” Nyx soothes. The hip thing was obviously a ruse, but the assassin’s using both of his arms—was his shoulder a ruse too? _How_? Nyx _heard_ it pop. The assassin pulls and shakes the sling off, until it’s lying uselessly on the floor, and he has use of his left arm again while holding the doctor securely in front of his with his right, but Nyx had heard the pop of the joint earlier. If he was fighting through the pain, then Nyx had to admit he was slightly impressed. “There’s no reason to hurt the doctor, okay? The doctor is an unarmed civilian.”

“Open the window,” the assassin demands. Fuck, what was his name? Ignis told Nyx his name.

“I’ll open the window,” Nyx says, letting his weapons vanish. There’s no guarantee the assassin won’t try to kill him this time, but Nyx is ready, even without weapons. And he might prevent bloodshed if the assassin feels less threatened. “I’m going to open the window, now, okay,” –fuck, what was his _name?—_ “Prompto.” Six, he hopes that’s it, otherwise this might go bad pretty fast.

The assassin doesn’t respond to the name, just motions for Nyx to get on with it. He does, and the he orders Nyx to get away from the window.

“Good,” the assassin says. “Good.”

A few things happen at once.

The assassin fires, and Nyx summons his weapons, but instead of a bullet, the room is filled with a blinding light, and he can no longer see. A body is shoved into Nyx—the doctor, it’s the doctor, he can tell by the clothes, so Nyx shoves him behind him even though he can’t fucking see where the threat is. The nurse is screaming, so he can’t _hear_ either—!

The light fades, and Nyx knows even before his blurry and tearing eyes refocus that the assassin is long gone. There’s a chance there’s glaives or guards outside that might be able to catch him while he leaves, but Nyx doesn’t think the same thing will work twice.

Nyx leaps out the window, lands on the ground, Tredd and Axis shortly behind him. One of them’s giving updates over the comm, but Nyx is searching for any hint, any trail, anything to track—

But there’s nothing.

The assassin is gone.

…

Like Prompto’s last attempt to escape the Citadel, the glaives once again intercept him, but this time he’s ready. When the beginnings of a sleep spell pull at the edges of his consciousness, he breaks it by jabbing a sharp, medical tool he stole from the doctor into his arm. The pain of it throws successfully off the status spell. Without the spell affecting him, he fires without hesitation at the nearby glaives as he runs until he is over the wall surrounding the Citadel.

There’s civilians around, in the busy streets. It’s not safe. The glaives are hot on his heels, and he can’t lose himself in a crowd either, not barefoot and in medical pajamas. The glaives are fast—there are now guards following him as well, and the glaives can _warp_ , but warping in front of Prompto is a mistake. One does, and Prompto shoots him in the foot, and he falls just as quickly.

Without warping, Prompto is just faster. He stands out in a crowd and out of it, but Insomnia is huge, and there’s a reason why Prompto chose to stab himself in the arm instead of either of his legs. He needed to escape and that arm was already verging on useless with his shoulder still hurting from dislocation even though the doctor set it; he can’t afford to injure himself in his other arm, or Six forbid, his legs.

Running has always been the most important ability Prompto has. Any idiot can shoot a gun, but surviving includes _getting away_.

And thankfully, Insomnia is labyrinthine. The streets by the Citadel are too wide and visible for him, but as he careens through to other districts, the streets become narrower, dirtier, darker, and ideal for someone who needs to fucking hide.

He stands out, but he’s lost the glaives, at this point. And he won’t stand out for long—he nabs some fresh clothes from a clothesline strung up between buildings and changes. He tosses the medical pajamas, save for a strip he cuts off and wraps around his self-inflicted wound.

A sling for his shoulder would mark him as too visible right now. Prompto’ll have to go without. It hurts, but it’s manageable.

It has to be manageable.

…

Getting out of Insomnia is impossible and Prompto panics. His injuries aren’t serious, not for him, not for what he’s been through, but he’s always has a point of retreat: a fellow resistance fighter’s apartment where he can rest and receive medical attention, a hidden cache in some alleyway, a basement of someone who doesn’t ask questions so long as they keep quiet. Somewhere that he could stop at, hide until the MT searches were over, until he was recovered and ready to go.

Prompto doesn’t have that in Insomnia. Instead, he has an untreated dislocated shoulder, a stab wound that’s showing signs of infection, and nowhere to go.

He can’t leave Insomnia. He tries, but there’s too much security at the borders to sneak pass, and Prompto has no documentation. And the documentation that exists is securely in Niflheim, with Aranea, and no one is going to be able to look at it ever, if he has his way. How Prompto came to be in this world doesn’t need to be known.

So he has to stay in Insomnia proper, but the searches for him aren’t lessening, either. He thought they would, that eventually his soulmates would have to redirect their attention to more important matters, but, well—Prompto supposes that the Prince can spend however much manpower he wants on whatever he wants.

He hides completely the first couple of days after his escape, and on the second day, at the first signs of infection, Prompto breaks into an empty apartment to clean it. The apartment is poorly stocked with medical supplies, and he isn’t able to clean the wound properly, nor do anything for his shoulder. And Prompto’s making mistakes, wounded as he is, for a neighbor must have seen and reported him. Almost as soon as he leaves, glaives are swarming the area.

Prompto narrowly avoids them, ripping open the stitches he just haphazardly sewed over his wound. Fuck. He squeezes himself into the sewers, and he has no doubt that even if he cleaned his wound well, it’s already infected again.

He spends too much time hiding in the sewers. There’s no glaives there, at least, but it’s the sewers. The next day, he comes up for fresh air, and breaks into an apartment that’s in a less nice neighborhood, where people are less likely to report what they see. The apartment has better medical supplies, but it’s too late—at this point he needs antibiotics, and he’s not going to be able to get them without medical attention, or stealing them from a medical office.

He needs to get out of Insomnia. And he’ll have to steal someone’s papers and doctor them. He searches the apartment, and nothing turns up. To his frustration, just when Prompto decides it’s work the risk to phone Biggs or Wedge, he realizes there aren’t any _fucking_ phones in the apartment. It shouldn’t be a surprise—most households in Niflheim don’t either. Too easy to tap, which makes even Loyalists uncomfortable. Insomnia is not as technologically advanced as Niflheim, thank _fuck_ , because that only ended with violations of nature, horrific acts of torture and experimentation, and an authoritarian government with an iron grip on its people and no concern for their lives.

He helps himself to the owner’s toiletries to get clean again, so he can stop smelling like sewer. He steals clothes and trashes the old ones outside when he leaves. But before he does, he turns on the TV, for a moment, to see what’s been said, if anything and—his face is on screen.

They’re not saying he’s the Prince’s soulmate, or anyone’s soulmate, even. Just that he’s a wanted man by the glaives, that he’s been breaking into houses, and to call a line if he’s seen.

He leaves that apartment immediately, and it’s just in time. There are glaives everywhere in that neighborhood shortly.

Prompto can’t hide in the sewers again. His stab wound on his arm is a painful, angry red with infection already, with white pus soaking the bandages. He cleaned as much of it out as he could in the apartment, dressed it with a clean, stolen bandage, but it won’t be long before he’ll need a new one.

He can’t keep breaking into apartments, either. They’re going to catch up to him eventually. And the pain of his injuries is catching up to him. Running and hiding is catching up to him.

He’s tired. Too tired. He needs to lie down, but he’s afraid to sleep. The feeling creeps and encroaches, and soon, he finds himself a nook that’s out of the way and hidden. He needs a plan, but he can’t think.

Prompto’ll think of something. He has to think of something…

…

Prompto has the body up against the wall and his gun to their throat before he’s properly awake. With how poorly he feels, he’s still not sure if he’s awake.

“Hey, hey, easy,” the man says, but Prompto’s vision is blurry. He’s wearing the all black that marks a Lucian soldier. But he looks and sounds familiar. “I just wanted to check your wounds.”

“Don’t touch me,” Prompto demands. Slurs. He hurts.

“I’m not touching you,” the man says. Soothingly. Prompto doesn’t feel soothed. “My hands aren’t anywhere near you, and you’ve got a gun to my throat. And I don’t want to hurt you. I just wanted to check your wounds.”

“I’m not going to be a prisoner,” Prompto says, instead. His hand is shaking, so the gun shakes against the man’s throat. The man doesn’t react.

“You’re not going to be a prisoner,” the man repeats. “We don’t want to imprison you. We want to get you medical attention.”

Alarm, white and hot, races through Prompto’s limbs. “’We’?” The muzzle of the gun is jammed hard enough against the man’s throat to leave a mark, while Prompto’s eyes darts around and sees—sees himself surrounded by glaives—

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m calling them off. See?” Keeping his hands away from Prompto, the glaive makes a symbol with his hand and the others warp away. “They’re gone. I’ve ordered them to leave. It’s just the two of us, now, and you’ve got a gun to my throat.”

Prompto calls him an idiot in Gralean for his stupidity. “дурак. I could kill you right now,” but his words are slurring, and the force keeping the glaive against the wall becomes more and more to support Prompto’s weight.

The glaive, for some reason, smiles. Crookedly. It’s probably meant to make Prompto feel at ease. Maybe. Lucians are weird. “You could. Are you going to?”

“I should,” Prompto mutters in Gralean. It’s hard to remain standing. He aches and he’s cold, chills washing over him with no relief between. He must have a fever. He needs to end this, get away, find somewhere he can treat himself, but he—his hand is shaking. He should. He should.

“It’s okay,” the glaive says, and a second passes before Prompto realizes the words were in Gralean. The glaive is speaking in Gralean. “You’re fine. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’m not going to let you take me back,” Prompto tells him, Gralean falling easier from his tongue, but the words slur regardless. His mother tongue, no matter how awful his home is, comforts him, and he finds himself putting more weight onto the glaive, unintentionally leaning against him. His gun is still an unwavering threat, no matter how much he’s shaking, but the glaive’s hands come around to support him in a mockery of a hug. “No,” he murmurs, no force behind it.

“You’re really hurt,” the glaive says. Still in Gralean. Prompto missed it. His accent’s even pretty good. He sounds like he’s from the northern region, but it’s not quite right. He is mostly just holding Prompto up now. “You need medical attention.”

[“I’m not a prisoner,” Prompto says. “I’d rather die.”](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/166587720107/right-click-to-view-larger-for-seladories)

[“At this rate, you will die,” the glaive says softly. “That wound on your arm looks pretty infected, and you’re burning up. And I’d bet you haven’t gotten that shoulder treated, either. And we can get you medical attention. You won’t be a prisoner.”](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/166587720107/right-click-to-view-larger-for-seladories)

[He needs medical attention. He really needs antibiotics.](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/166587720107/right-click-to-view-larger-for-seladories)

[He doesn’t want to die. Not now. Not here. Not on this foreign land, in this strange city. Not for this.](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/166587720107/right-click-to-view-larger-for-seladories)

[“No restraints,” Prompto says. His gun hand is sliding away from the glaive’s throat, and one of his hands supporting him reaches up slowly to gently pull it out of his hand. The glaive tosses it with a clatter somewhere down the alleyway.](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/166587720107/right-click-to-view-larger-for-seladories)

Prompto closes his eyes. Now he’s cold, aching, and unarmed; he shivers against the glaive and rests his face in his shoulder. He might as well and at least he’s warm. The glaive lets him, even. Doesn’t arrest him immediately. Prompto has no energy to resist when the glaive’s arms shift, but he only moves him so they slide down against the wall. Down, until they’re both sitting, Prompto curled up in his lap.

He’s warm. He smells like leather, gun oil, and metal. And he’s whispering Gralean into his ear, and the situation of it all almost feels like home. “You won’t be a prisoner. You can go to the Citadel and receive medical attention. They were planning on taking off your restraints completely before you escaped. Your soulmates aren’t bad people. They weren’t trying to hurt you.”

Prompto needs medical attention. He knows this. He can recognize that, that this is dangerous. But there are too many things to be afraid of. “Will they let me leave?”

The glaive says, “They will. They’ll want to make sure you’re healed and cleared by the doctor, but they’ll let you leave.”

Who is he to say that? Glaives are warriors sent out to die in the front lines. They have no authority in politics. “Royalty does whatever it wants.”

“The Prince is a good man,” the glaive says. “Your soulmates are all good men. They’ll let you go. It may not be as soon as you’d like, because you’re in really rough shape, but they won’t force you to stay against your will.” He sounds like he means it. The glaives sounds like he really believes that these people—the Prince, the advisor, and the shield—are good people.

Another chill overtakes Prompto, making him shiver again. He can’t stop it. He’ll die without medical attention. If the glaive is lying, or wrong, he’ll be imprisoned. They’ll probably restrain Prompto again. But if he dies here, he’ll never get out of Insomnia. He’ll never see his friends again. They may never find out what happened to him. The only good thing about dying here is that they may never have to find out how badly he fucked up what was supposed to be just a recon mission for intel on his soulmates.

“Okay,” Prompto says. Feeling like he is letting go of something, but unsure what. His freedom, maybe. With no reason not to, he sinks further into the hold on him. Letting the glaive do what he wants. To take him back to the Citadel. To whatever comes next. “Okay. I’ll come with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I know some of y'all will ask and it's not really a secret or spoiler, yes that is Nyx at the end.


	4. The Sleeping Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto spends most of this chapter asleep.

The assassin is either unconscious or so out of it that it no longer matters, so Nyx stands them both up. He’s hot to touch but shivering, so Nyx pulls off his Kingsglaive jacket and pulls it over him.

“Ulric, there’s a car arriving at your location in approximately two minutes,” the captain says over the comm. “Get to the street out of the alleyway to meet it.”

Nyx shifts the jacket over the assassin and does a couple of the buttons so it stays on and it stays warm. “Understand, sir.” For the first time, he wonders if they’ve found the assassin too late—he’s not responding to Nyx manhandling him into the coat and out of the alleyway, and while he’s trying to be as gentle as he can, he’s not a caregiver of any kind. The assassin’s really that out of that. That sick.

 _Shit_. Even Nyx is going to be pissed if the assassin dies after all this.

Crowe and Sonitus meets him. “You dumb fuck,” Crowe hisses at him in Galahdian, not even bothering to turn her comm off. “You could have _died_.”

Nyx waits for the captain or Luche to tell them to knock it off until they’re in private, but both are silent. That’s a bad sign. “Can it wait until after we’ve delivered the Prince’s soulmate?” he pleads with her in his Galahdian. The car arrives, and she opens the door for him to place the assassin into, doing up his belt while he’s at it.

“You’re an idiot, and no amount of effort on anyone’s part is going to fix that. I don’t know why I bother,” Crowe says.

“She’s got a point, Ulric,” says Luche over the comms. In Lucian, since his Galahdian isn’t great, but he can understand it. Has had to, or suffer not knowing what Nyx, Crowe, and Libertus say about him to his face.

“It worked,” he persists. He climbs into the other side of the backseat the car. Crowe gets in the shotgun, Sonitus takes the wheel. “I convinced him to consent to coming back to the Citadel.”

“And that was very impressive,” comes their captain’s voice. “I’ll submit you for a commendation. But letting a hostile hold a gun to your throat is an unbelievable stupid action, and Crowe has my full permission to reprimand you for that stupidity.”

“Reprimanding him is a waste of Crowe’s time,” Axis comments through the comms. “If he hasn’t learned his lesson yet, he never will.”

“How did you know he wouldn’t shoot you? He shot Tredd,” Crowe asks.

“It _worked_ ,” Nyx reminds them all. There’s a lot of traffic, but Sonitus clears it by turning on the car’s emergency lights. They should be at the Citadel in five minutes, the speed they’re going. Nyx keeps an eye on the assassin. He may have come willingly, but with how sick and injured he is, he may not remember that agreement when he next wakes up. On that note, “And he might not be unconscious, so _be quiet_.” The assassin has proven himself clever enough to trick them, and he eluded them for _days_. Nyx is keeping an eye on him and his vitals (and he’s really burning up, Sonitus needs to step on it) but Nyx wouldn’t put it past the assassin to feign unconsciousness to listen in on their conversations. Even if it seems unlikely that he’s physically capable of that in the moment.

At least it shuts up everyone in the car. The glaives are never going to let him live this down, and hound him for letting the assassin go at his throat _again_ —Six, maybe they’d actually heal his throat this time, since this was in the line of duty—but at least he got the assassin with him none worse for the wear.

They just need him to live long enough to get to the Citadel, now.

Glaives and medics await them at the Citadel’s entrance, the assassin disappearing on a gurney almost as soon as they pull up.

“Ulric, report to my office, now,” the captain says.

Nyx doesn’t wince, but he wants to. Getting called to the captain’s office never stopped feeling like being called to the principal’s office at school. A trip that Nyx had been unfortunately familiar with as a kid, though that school is long gone now. Nyx did well in his mission, though. He talked the assassin into coming with him! No one else got hurt, and maybe the Prince and his royal harem might have a chance with their last soulmate now.

Probably will, anyway. Nyx doesn’t know either the Prince or Ignis very well, though Scientia seems okay when he’s not wound up on the fear of being assassinated. And the Prince, well—it’s difficult to get to know someone whose every order must be obeyed. Gladio’s a good guy, and pretty down to eos for a guy of noble stock. Nyx trusts him, in the battlefield and out of it. It may not be as easy to let the assassin go when he’s well as he promised, but Nyx is confident his words to the assassin were mostly true.

Crowe gives Nyx a not-so-friendly punch on the arm before he leaves for the captain’s office. Nyx expects some sort of reprimand for his carelessness, but hopes he can finagle a healing out of it.

He does not expect Lord Amicitia to be there.

“Sirs,” Nyx says, in attention and saluting.

“At ease,” says Lord Amicitia. Nyx shifts into rest, not really feeling at ease. “Nyx Ulric, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You convinced my son’s soulmate to come in peacefully and willingly after days of searching for him?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

Lord Amicitia eyes him. Nyx doesn’t let himself look away, but he wishes he could focus on Drautos’ expression for just a second, to get a read on this situation. On what Amicitia wants. Drautos is an immigrant, like Nyx is—he’s worked tooth and nail getting up the ranks until he got to captain of the Kingsglaives. Drautos understands politics much better than he lets on, and much better than Nyx ever hopes to.

“How did you convince Prompto to surrender?” Amicitia asks.

What _did_ he say? Nyx barely remembers for all that it was only fifteen minutes ago. It wasn’t anything that special. “I reassured him that I didn’t mean him any harm, and that we only wanted to give him medical attention. I told him that we didn’t intend to take him prisoner or hurt him. And that with his injuries, he would likely die if he didn’t receive medical attention.”

“Very succinct, Glaive Ulric. Well put,” says Amicitia. “Titus and I were just listening to the recording.” _Then why did you ask me_? Nyx thinks with no small amount of irritation. “You acted admirably. Good job.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He gazes at him, considering. “Ulric, do you think you would be able to calm down Prompto in the future, when he next wakes up?”

 _What?_ How is Nyx supposed to know that? The assassin was sick and wounded, and half of the work was probably done when he decided to give the poor fucker a hug. “I can try, sir.”

“Considering you convinced him and brought him in, it would be best for you to be present when he wakes up here,” Amicitia says, a little more to himself than to Nyx or Drautos. “If you’re amenable, Captain, I would like to temporarily reassign Ulric to be part of Prompto’s guard.”

“I have no problems with that. Ulric?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Great. Go rest, Ulric. Next time you report for duty, you will be guarding Prompto. If he wakes, you are responsible for reasoning and calming him down for now until the situation is more stable. Any questions?”

At least guard duty is mildly better than wall duty. Not by much though. The assassin’s been a pain so far, but at least he’s been interesting. And Nyx can understand _why_ he’s acting that way, even if it causes a lot of trouble. “No, sir.”

With a clear dismissal, Nyx leaves Drautos and Lord Amicitia. Unenthusiastically, he rejoins the other glaives for the good-natured but admonishing dressing down he expects to get for his actions.

…

The room is windowless as a precaution, and the colors lighting of the room were bright enough to almost make up for it. Noctis understands the necessity but wishes he didn’t have to. As it is, Noctis keeps the prone form of his last soulmate company in the room designated for Prompto’s rest and recovery where he can be securely held and watched without requiring restraints of any kind.

Prompto is still unconscious, an IV in his arm this time for nutrition, hydration, and antibiotics. His stab wound, which given the mark that the three of them now bear on their arms as well, was definitively self-inflicted. Why, though, is less certain. The glaives reported that he did it while escaping, Glaive Altius attempted to subdue him with another sleep spell, but neither Noctis nor his father knew that a status spell could be thrown off with such a method. It’s a rather desperate method to consider, but a method worth considering all the same, given its effectiveness.

Of course, if his soulmate hadn’t hurt himself, he wouldn’t have gotten such a bad infection. He wouldn’t have escaped for several days in the first place, leaving Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis to scramble and send off orders for his recovery. All of their notes and writings to Prompto went ignored and unanswered. Their pleas for his return, explanations that Gladio had _literally_ been making the arrangements to remove the restraints and that they wouldn’t do that again, that his shoulder needs treatment or he faces permanent damage.

Thet never received a response, and since bringing Prompto in, they’ve mostly washed them away. They’re not sure why they were ignored and how their soulmate will react to them while he’s more lucid.

Noctis has not said this out loud, and he doesn’t plan to in the immediate future, but he thinks perhaps that their soulmate is simply treating them as they treated him for ten long years. Or perhaps he’s just too used to ignoring the three of them that he fell into old habits.

Noctis can’t honestly blame him for. They had their reasons for ignoring him, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t shitty.

There were several call ins once they put his face on the news about a man who fit his description breaking into houses and apartments, but the glaives always just missed him. They knew he was there; the first time they were able to track him several streets away, but then he had just vanished. They lost him completely for a couple of days, and they have no idea still where he was hiding.

Their soulmate isn’t even awake yet, but there’s so many things to do already. Gladio said he reacted badly to touch, so they can’t touch him, not even casually, and they also need to find him a counselor. They need to convince him to _talk_ to a counselor, which is a concern so far in the future—their soulmate isn’t even awake!—that they shouldn’t be worrying over it, except for the rather _significant_ detail that their soulmate is frightened by touch. Which makes itself a priority for the disturbing implications that carries.

Noctis wants to kill something, so he slays his enemies in King’s Knights with a vengeance the poor coding doesn’t deserve.

After about an hour, his soulmate doesn’t wake up, and the Crownsguard on standby with him reminds him of his next engagement. Reluctantly, Noctis leaves the room. As he goes, Glaive Ulric enters the room. He inclines his head with a, “Your Highness,” and lets him walk past.

“Ulric,” Noctis says. This is the first time since his soulmate’s retrieval that he’s seen Ulric. He’s gotten the official reports but he hasn’t had a chance to thank Ulric in person yet. “You’ve been assigned to guard my soulmate, right?”

The glaive, at being addressed, falls into military rest position. “That’s correct, Your Highness.”

Noctis has listened to the audio recording of Ulric convincing his soulmate to come in for medical attention. He owes a lot to this man, regardless of how Prompto reacts upon waking. “Call me Noctis,” he says. “It’s fine. I just wanted to thank you for bringing my soulmate in.”

A pause. The glaive’s expression doesn’t change. Most of them are like that around Noctis. “Just doing my job, sir.” Noctis probably isn’t going to convince Ulric to call him by his name. Well, sir is an improvement, even if it’s not a correct form of address. But he’s not going to push it. Noctis has learned the hard way that some people are just too uncomfortable to call the Prince by his name.

“Well, thank you anyway. Let me know if you need anything in the future.” There, that should be properly understood. Glaives spent enough time in court to understand how important that is, right? The Crownsguard next to him certainly understood it, tensing up a bit.

The glaive’s expression is inscrutable. Noctis is impressed. “Thank you, sir. I will.”

Noctis should move on, and let Ulric continue with his job. But he needs to know, “Is there anything about Prompto that didn’t make it to the report that you can tell me?” He wants to know how his soulmate acted. How he responded physically to the presence and threat of the Kingsglaives. What happened beyond the recorded words when Ulric got Prompto’s gun away from him.

He wants to know. It could also help, but Noctis just really wants to know.

“No, sir,” Ulric says without hesitation. Regardless, Noctis is surprised. Was there really no detail that Ulric could mention to him? “I included it all in my report. We tracked him down from his last break-in, and I went in first to check his vitals. He was asleep but woke up as soon as I touched him, and the conversation we had is available to listen to.”

“Right. Okay, then. As you were,” Noctis says. Ulric gives a final bow, and proceeds into Prompto’s room. He closes the door and Noctis eyes it for a moment. The Kingsglaives are his father’s chosen, elite warriors. Someday (too soon), Noctis will have his own. Gladio and Ignis, for all of their other titles, are his Kingsglaives-in-training, as will Iris when she’s old enough to join the Crownsguard officially. But the Glaives are not his father’s peers—not like Clarus and Cor, who are similar to his father in age and noble lineage. Glaives by necessity for his father are younger, warriors who are skilled and desperate to fight. _For hearth and home_.

Noctis knows many Kingsglaives are often from outlying regions, especially regions that have fallen to Niflheim control. Like Crownsguards, it’s a position available to commoners and nobility alike. Unlike Crownsguards, its high mortality rate and insignificant social rank almost guaranteed that commoners, especially immigrant commoners, were the only ones who joined it.

It’s always disconcerting to interact with Kingsglaives. They conduct investigations, but they’re assassins. Their front line warriors. They’re very composed, especially around Noctis, which never stops leaving him feeling like he’s missed a step.

The Crownsguard, Clava, clears his throat. “Your Highness?”

“Sorry. Let’s go,” Noctis says. 

…

Gladio wants to kick his own ass. He's not sure how to do that, but Six damn him, he's gonna try. He spends the entire day after his soulmate breaks out of the Citadel in the gym. The second day they’re looking for him, Gladio trains the Crownsguard recruits, sparring until the sun goes down and the greenies leave for the night. The third day, Cor refuses to let him train the recruits again, so he hits the gym again.

When it’s midday and he’s about a few hours on the weights, the Crown Prince of Lucis himself shows up, disheveled and grumpy.

“I need you to come with me,” Noctis says.

It’s his soulmate and his prince, and Gladio doesn’t really want a reprimand from either in a public space like the gym. He goes with him without complaint. Well, without _verbal_ complaint. He’s worked his body hard enough these past couple of days that his muscles complain with every step.

Noctis leads them to his chambers. Gladio nods to the two Crownsguard guarding the room, goes into the room, and Noctis firmly closes the door.

Gladio frowns. “One of them needs to be in here.”

“I’m with my Shield, it’s the safest I could be,” Noctis enters easily. “Now, strip.”

Normally, Gladio would be chucking off his clothes before the words finished leaving his soulmate’s mouth, would never get a chance to leave his mouth, as he would kiss the words right out of him. He would lift him up, because Noct always secretly likes being carried even if he felt the need to put in a token protest or two about it, guide him to the bed, and keep going until all of the Prince’s worries melted away with his touch.

But this isn’t the time. His body is protesting the treatment he’s given it the past couple of days—Gladio doesn’t think he can handle sex right now. “Noct…”

“We’re going to take a bath,” Noctis says. Demands, like the Prince he is. “I haven’t seen you in days, and there’s nothing else we can do while the glaives search for our soulmate, so we have some time.” He gives him a critical look. “And hot water soothes sore muscles.”

Guiltily, Gladio rubs the sore muscles of his arm. “It’s my fault that—”

“Nope. No,” Noctis says. “We’re not doing this until I’m naked and in a nice, hot bath, with my naked soulmate. And there’s going to be bubbles. Now, seriously, _strip_ , your clothes are sweaty and gross.”

 With an order like that, who is Gladio to refuse?

He strips and walks across the suite to the bathroom, where Noctis is getting the bath ready.

“What do you think of lavender?” he calls from the bathroom. “Our other option is vanilla.”

“Lavender,” Gladio answers, trying not to look at the unanswered writings on his arms or Noct’s. “I don’t want to smell like cookies.”

“Lavender it is,” the Prince says with all the finality of a policy decision, dumping way too much of the bubble liquid into the forming bath. Gladio can already smell it.

“We’re going to reek,” Gladio mutters, closing the bathroom door anyway, as Noctis strips himself and sticks a foot into the tub.

“Lavender is supposed to be relaxing,” he says, stirring the water with his foot a bit. When the water gets high enough, Noctis orders Gladio in first, and then climbs in himself. “Get comfortable.”

Having a hunch of what Noctis has in mind, he does make himself comfortable, stretching along the length of the large tub. When he’s settled, Noctis stretches along on top of him and between his legs. Gladio wraps an arm around his waist after Noct’s gotten in a good enough position to relax into it.

“See? This is already a lot better,” Noct says into Gladio’s chest. He presses a lazy kiss to it.

It _is_ better. The hot water soothes his sore muscles, and the lavender scent, even if it’s a little bit strong, is relaxing. But the kid’ll be too smug if he admits that, so he doesn’t say it. “It’s alright.”

“You’re fucking right, it’s alright,” the Crown Prince of Lucis rumbles. It’s more than alright, having his naked soulmate lounging against him, even if he still feels like shit. And should feel like shit right now. He fucked up.

Noctis starts messing around with the bubbles. “Okay, let’s talk about this. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Gladio says.

“Yeah, fucking right,” he mutters, leaning up towards Gladio’s face, and oh so carefully adorning it with a bubble beard. “Really, what’s up?”

“Nothing’s up,” he says now, more automatically than anything. It’s hard to answer a serious question when his soulmate is giving them bubble facial hair.

“Oh, so I haven’t seen you the past couple of days for no reason then? Cor texted me and told me under no certain terms were you to train the recruits for at least a month because you beat them up, that was just for shits and giggles? You weren’t planning to spend all day in the gym again today?”

Gladio stays silent for a minute. Noctis isn’t looking at him, preoccupied with the bubbles, so he lets himself sink a little bit further into the water, far enough that the water washes away the bubbles on his face. Feeling slightly more serious, he comes back up a little. “It’s my fault our soulmate is missing.” He lifts up his arm a little, to see if his words are washing away. Only a little, faded bit remains, and he scrubs it a bit with his other hand.

“Yeah, pretty sure our soulmate broke out on his own,” Noctis says, yawning.

“I ordered the restraints to be removed,” Gladio protests, cringing in guilt. No one got hurt, thank Shiva, but now their soulmate— _the_ Niflheim assassin—is lost to the wind, with no idea where he is or if they’ll ever see him again. And they sure did fuck up their first meeting with him.

“You had to order the restraints to be removed. He dislocated his shoulder, and it needed treatment. We shouldn’t have had the restraints on at all, but what’s done is done. We have to trust the glaives will find him.”

Gladio squeezes to him a little tighter. “If I hadn’t left—”

“You did the right thing,” Noctis says. “Do you blame the doctor for releasing the waist restraint?”

“No,” Gladio answers. “He thought he had a hip injury, too.”

“Our soulmate tricked the doctor and the glaives standing guard in order to escape. Even with our precautions, we made a mistake with the restraints in the first place, and then we still managed to underestimate him. But I think he would have found a way to escape one way or another. And you did the right thing removing the restraints—we wanted to keep him secure, not traumatize him.”

“We fucked up,” Gladio admits.

“Yeah, we did,” Noct says, going underwater for a brief moment to wet his hair. He comes up again with a bubble crown on his hair. While wiping the bubbles off his face, he continues, “but we had no reason to expect that kind of reaction. And every reason to be cautious. It was a fuck up, but not _your_ fuck up. We all did it, and we’ll deal with it when we get our soulmate back.”

“We might not get him back,” Gladio says. At least his muscles feel better now, but he’s not feeling as positive as Noctis. “He could be out of Insomnia by now. Heading back to Niflheim. Or he could be dying, out there with an untreated dislocated shoulder and a self-inflicted stab wound.” At this, Gladio raises his left arm, where an ugly, pale, knotted mark lies. It came with a sudden, sharp pain while he was on his way from his dad’s study to the medical wing. He ran back after that, getting there in less than a minute, but he showed up to a blinding light, freaked out medical staff, and a missing soulmate.

“We’ll find him,” Noctis says, authority coloring his voice. It’s a shame being in a bubble bath negates all of that authority, but Gladio feels reassured anyway.

…

Guard duty is boring, especially when the body you’re guarding is unconscious or otherwise so doped up he’s completely out of it.

Prompto spends a day asleep, and then spends the next few days so out of it that he’s incomprehensible, and Nyx spends the entire time by his side, the only exceptions for when he has to go sleep.

It’s boring. Nyx is bored.

When he’s off duty, he bitches to the other glaives, who aren’t as sympathetic as he would like.

“Think of it as punishment,” says Axis, pretending to be solemn while shit-faced drunk. “Like wall duty.”

“This is _worse_ than wall duty,” Nyx grouches. “At least with wall duty I don’t have the Prince checking up on me. Or the King. Or the Shield. Or the Prince’s Advisor, he’s so wound up, I think I caught anxiety from him. He wouldn’t stop adjusting his glasses, and I think he checked the assassin’s medical chart like twenty times in five minutes.” The others laugh at him. Nyx hates them all a little for a moment. “I need better friends.”

Libertus snorts next to him, and Luche smacks his arm hard. “Nah, you’re stuck with us for _life **.**_ No turning back on your glaive family.” Nyx mutters Galahdian obscenities at him, and Luche bumps shoulders with him a bit more companionably. “Look, I’ll buy you a shot, okay? And guard duty will be over soon. The assassin will wake up, and then it’ll be the Prince’s problem.”

 _Astrals_ , Nyx hopes so. “I miss the front lines. I hate this political shit.”

“It can’t be for much longer,” Sonitus comforts. “The little assassin will wake up, fall onto the little Royal dick, and just be one more noble shit we have to take orders from.”

His shot arrives. Nyx downs it in one go. “Talking to royalty is freaky. I always feel like they’re going to order my execution for a button out of place.”

“Idiot, Insomnia hasn’t had executions for the past twenty-five years,” Crowe yells from down the table. “And they really don’t care enough about you to start them up again.”

“Thanks?” Nyx says, rather sloshed at this point. “Wait, that was an insult.”

Libertus comes down with another couple of drinks. “Yeah, but you should still be happy about it, it’s a good thing. You don’t want to be important. When you’re important, people assassinate you, or restrain you to a bed, or send a shit-ton of highly trained warriors to track you down and bring you back into prison.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Luche says, and their glasses clink as they take a sip in silence.

“That’s gotta be shitty, though. I don’t think he’s going to be happy when he wakes up,” Nyx says.

“Yeah, man, he might not even remember agreeing to come back with you. And you never know, the Prince or the crusty Council might fuck up and decide to restrain him again. Especially if he has another freak out,” Axis says.

“Really not that great of a thing to do to your soulmate is it,” says Libertus, glancing at his soulmate, Crowe.

“Not that great of a first meeting,” Nyx agrees.

“Even if your soulbond is romantic, but Ifrit’s flaming ball sack, imagine if that happens and the soulbond turns out platonic,” Crowe says.

Nyx has been worrying about that. He means it when he told the assassin that his soulmates are good people, but they have a certain kind of relationship now that includes a lot of fucking, and they are definitely expecting that their soulbond with him will be similar. He’s not sure if it’s ever occurred to them that soulbonds can be platonic and familial, like with Crowe and Libertus.

Like Nyx and his sister.

He misses his sister.

“Snap out of it,” Luche says, leaning over the table to jab Nyx in the arm. “I think you’ve had enough.” Someone takes his drink away.

“Hey,” Nyx protests half-heartedly.

“You don’t want to be depressed and hung over tomorrow when you have to guard the assassin, do you?” Luche asks, much too sensibly. Nyx grunts his disagreement. “Well, too bad. You’re done for the night. I’m taking you home.”

Nyx leaves willingly enough with Luche, leaning on him on the walk back even though he isn’t actually _that_ wasted. Luche, whether he realizes this or not, lets him.

“Remember that it’s not your problem, what the Prince and his soulmates get up to,” Luche tells him, pushing him into his apartment. “It’s a low risk assignment. The assassin hasn’t killed any one of us yet, even though he’s had ample chance to,” Luche gives him a pointed stare, “ _especially_ with you. He’s even tried to actively not have to hurt or kill any of us, so take it as an honor, get through the Six-damned job, and you’ll be back with us before you know it.”

Nyx struggles out of his boots and jacket, heading over to his bedroom. Luche follows him, unnecessarily pick up his clothes after him. “You don’t need to do that,” Nyx slurs, falling into his bed, knowing it’s not going to make any difference. He watches Luche throw the clothes into his hamper.

Before he can fall asleep, Luche shakes his shoulder. “Listen, Nyx, I know you’re a little shit, but this guy has taken a lot of pains to _not_ kill any of us, which we all should greatly appreciate. Do _not_ provoke him into trying to kill you, he’s made it pretty clear you’re not going to win that fight.”

Nyx is indignant, but also tired, and he’s out of it before he can respond.


	5. Gunpowder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea time with Ignis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up--as y'all might have picked up on, I am all about the untraditional take on the soulmate au. I am hesitant to tag a bunch of plot-related stuff because I don't want to spoil what I have planned until I get to it, and some of the details are still up in the air (though I do have an outline of what's going to happen). I should mention that this is obviously a chocobros ot4 soulmate au, and it is about them and their relationships, but things might not work out as expected. I'm a happy ending kind of person, don't worry! It's going to be fine!

Prompto is too hot. He twists and kicks off the covers on him, rolling over onto his stomach, and turns over again when something on his arm hurts and gets in the way. That’s unusual, he knows. It’s never warm enough. Not with the constant cold, ice, and snow, the blight on all Niflheim citizens for their Empire’s actions—

 _Wait a fucking minute_. His eyes snap open, and he sits up like a shot.

He notices several things at once.

There are no restraints. The pain in his arm is from another IV, but he doesn’t feel any more drugged than from a weak painkiller. His other arm is in a splint which is restrictive, but easily removable if necessary. He’s obviously in the Citadel, but the room looks homier (expensive, rich person homier, but homier nonetheless) than a medical wing. And there’s someone in the room with him.

There’s a man in a chair by Prompto’s bed. He’s watching him warily, but he hasn’t gotten up. Or even moved. The man looks vaguely familiar, but Prompto doesn’t know his name. It’s not one of his soulmates, which loosens something inside of him. “Who are you?” Prompto demands.

Bizarrely, the corners of the man’s lips twitch up into a smirk. “I’m the Kingsglaive who convinced you to come here to receive medical attention for your infection and dislocated shoulder,” the man—the _glaive_ —says. “Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” Prompto answers. He has a good memory, probably due to the laboratory treatments. He shoves that from his mind. It’s not the time. “You can speak Gralean?”

The man nods. “Yes, I can.” He switches to Prompto’s native language. “I’m not quite fluent, but there were many Niflheim sailors in my port of a hometown in Galahd. I picked it up.” He pauses, clearly waiting for Prompto to respond in some way, but he has nothing to add. It makes sense, but Prompto rarely ever left Gralea before this trip. The man adds, in the air of someone trying to be funny when it’s not really, “I’m much better at cussing than I am convincing someone that they need medical attention.”

It’s not funny, but Prompto graces it with a snort anyway for the effort. Horrible attempts at humor to break the bleak atmosphere he can understand. It’s the only form humor they have in Niflheim. That, and morbid jokes about dying horribly. To lighten the fear of dying horribly.

Prompto clears his throat. His mouth is uncomfortably dry and stale. “And your name?”

“Nyx Ulric, at your service,” says the man, holding out a hand for him to shake. Prompto does so tentatively—he knows that’s how you greet a person in Insomnia, having seen Ignis greet many people in that manner. They don’t normally shake hands in Niflheim because it’s too fucking cold to take your hands out of your pockets whenever you meet a new person, even if you have gloves on. (Everyone has gloves on.) They generally bow or give a nod instead.

“Prompto,” he says, knowing how this is supposed to go.

“Nice to meet you, officially. Especially without you going for my throat again.”

Prompto remembers the gun he had pressed against Nyx’s throat in that alleyway, but the memory of the man whose clothes he stole burns suddenly in his mind. “Oh, _shit_.”

The man is genuinely smiling now. “Don’t worry about it. Strangling and then aiming a gun at it? Starting to think you have a thing for my neck.”

Prompto splutters. “No. I do _not_. You just have a neck that asks to be strangled.” The glaive laughs at him.

The man, still humored, says, “Well, at least wait until you’re recovered. I’d feel bad fighting someone on their hospital bed.”

“This doesn’t look like a hospital,” Prompto starts slowly. He has to be in the Citadel, but this doesn’t look like a medical wing or room of any sort. It just looks like a room. A nice room with money in everything, but reminds Prompto most about how they would patch up and heal wherever they could, in alleyways, basements, and most commonly in people’s homes.

“It’s a spare bedroom converted into your hospital room,” says the glaive easily. They probably gave him a limit on what he can say and answer. Prompto wonders at the limits of it. “They needed a secure place to keep you without requiring restraints. This is the compromise. You get this sweet room, with me as company,” the glaive gives him a saucy grin, “which clearly makes it even better.”

Prompto blushes red a bit, making the glaive smile wider, but he remains carefully still and it’s not like Prompto’s restrained this time. Even weakened, he could take him like this, so he’s not afraid. He asks instead, “Where are my soulmates?”

“Working, presumably. They’ve been checking in regularly these past few days, but they have responsibilities they must see to.” The glaive is relaxes minutely as he watches Prompto react. The glaive adds, “And they thought I would be the best person to be here when you woke up to answer your questions.”

That’s true. A shame they didn’t have that in mind before. But—his earlier fears, when he was restrained, at his soulmate’s mercy. He’s still here, under their power, even if they are not in the room. Do they really mean to let him go? “Why are you here, if I’m not a prisoner?”

“To answer your questions,” the glaive repeats, “and to make sure you don’t end up hurting yourself. You’re not a prisoner, but we want you to have a chance to fully recuperate before sending you on your way.” This glaive is well chosen, and Prompto remembers this from their previous conversation. His mannerisms are casual and have a certain ease to them that most people, Prompto included, don’t have. For a Kingsglaive of Lucis, he seems honest. “Even if you don’t want anything to do with your soulmates, the least they can do is to make sure you don’t die.”

“So I am being held,” Prompto says slowly, “until a doctor clears me. What if a doctor doesn’t clear me?” He’s pretty sure most places aren’t like Niflheim, but doctors were the most terrifying of all Niflheim officials. They didn’t just arrest you or kill you. They _experimented_ on you. If you were lucky, you’d be dead for the experiments, and no matter what they did to your corpse, at least you’d be gone. Death was the better option. Living was worse, subject to those experiments over and over again, until they ran out of use for you and disposed of you, using your remains as food or bait, or worse, until you became a monster yourself, one who would turn on your foes as easily as your friends—

“You okay?” the glaive asks loudly, peering at him, in a tone of voice and expression that clearly says that he can see Prompto is not okay.

“I don’t like doctors,” Prompto says quickly. He’s trembling a bit. He sits up further to feel less vulnerable, keeping a careful eye on the glaive to see if he’s going to try to stop him.

“Be careful of your IV,” the glaive cautions but otherwise does nothing. “It’s painful to rip them out, and they’ll take it out for you later on.”

“I don’t like doctors,” Prompto repeats more strongly. He doesn’t rip out his IV, but he’s prepared to so he can run. “I agreed to medical attention, not doctors.”

Confusion swirls on the glaive’s face openly, and he doesn’t even attempt to hide it. “But I have to bring you to doctors to get you medical attention,” he says. “Where did you think I was going to bring you?”

The thing is, Prompto _knew_ the glaive was going to bring him back to the Citadel. And that man who had released the waist restraint—he was a doctor, wasn’t he? Prompto knew they had doctors here, and that the glaive expected him to let doctors treat him. But medical attention in Niflheim _never_ meant doctors. It meant a friend with a couch, a first aid kit, and the drugs you needed. No doctors. Never doctors. Doctors meant you were caught and going to end up dead if you’re lucky.

So doctors, then, meant medical attention in Insomnia. Did they not experiment on people, then, in Insomnia? If that was the case, Prompto wonders, eyeing the glaive suspiciously and with a bit of dawning horror he was careful to hide, how did the Kingsglaives and Crownsguards get their powers from? Rumors said it was from the magic in the Lucis royal line, but as if Prompto believes _that_. Prompto’s magic comes from the horrific experiments done to him as a child with daemon blood and genetics, and there’s no reason to think that Lucis does any differently. It might just be better hidden.

And even if it was from the magic of the royal family, where do _they_ get their power from?

He can’t say that to a glaive. Instead he says, “Your doctors here actually help?”

“Yeah,” the glaive answers slowly. He takes a breath and releases it in a puff. “Yeah, they help. They’re supposed to help, anyway. The ones here definitely will,” and he gives Prompto a particular look, “and they will never hurt you, not while you’re here.”

They could hurt him after he leaves. Maybe doctors had to behave themselves when treating guests in the Citadel, but afterwards they can take whomever and do whatever they want. He’ll need to be careful then, and leave only when he’s ready.

Or—his face was on their television broadcasts. It might take a while to reach Aranea, but she’ll see that. He might be able to escape a rescue sooner or later. Prompto’ll have to keep an eye out for one of her spies.

The glaive continues, the expression on his face still a bit odd. “I… clearly don’t know as much as I should about what happens in Niflheim, but doctors don’t hurt people in Lucis. When something’s wrong, you discuss with a doctor the best possible treatment plan. You get to decide what to do with your body, and you can choose whether or not to follow the doctor’s advice. And if something doesn’t work, you change it.” He pauses. “What do doctors do in Niflheim?”

Prompto doesn’t know how to answer that, how to explain to someone who isn’t from Niflheim what has happened to its citizens under the Empire. What they created. From the look on the glaive’s face, he doesn’t seem certain he’s ready to hear an answer, either. “Not that,” Prompto says, finally through a dry mouth. It doesn’t sound real, but some tension leaves his shoulders. He’s fine for now. He’s fine right now.

“The doctor already saw you,” the glaive says slowly, when it became clear Prompto isn’t going to elaborate. “That IV has nutrients, water, and antibiotics. That splint is to keep your shoulder still, but you’re going to need to do some Physical Therapy—”

“Some what?” Prompto interrupts.

“Physical Therapy,” the glaive repeats.

“What’s that?”

“I—um,” he flounders. “It’s when you have to do certain exercises to make sure your body heals and strengthens properly after an injury. To make sure you have full use of that body part later.”

Prompto has literally never heard of that. “Oh.” He’s not even sure if he needs it, given his background. Has he dislocated a shoulder before? He’s definitely gotten hurt plenty of times, but his old injuries never bothered him. Prompto has his records as a lab specimen, but the full effect of what they did to him are still muddled, revealing hints of his origins inconveniently. “They didn’t take a blood sample, did they?”

“No,” the glaive says. “Why would they?”

“Okay,” Prompto says. He relaxes back into the bed a bit. “What happens now?”

Still confused, but willing enough to go with it, the glaive says, “The doctor needs to check up on you, but I’ll be here the whole time. Though at this point, you mostly need some more rest, and then some physical therapy.” He pauses. “Do you remember your soulmates?”

Aside from Ignis? Prompto can remember seeing the two others through the window, the big guy and the Prince, but if he’s talking about after he was captured—wait, _shit_ —“Gladiolus Amicitia was with me when” –he woke up and panicked, to put it mildly. Aranea would be ashamed—“last time I was here. I barely remember anything we said though.” He looks closer at the glaive’s face. What was his name again? “I remember you better.”

The glaive smiles a bit. “You were a little calmer when we were talking, and Gladio wasn’t in the room at that time.” He takes in a breath, “So you know who all of your soulmates are?”

Prompto nods. No point in pretending about that at least. “Yes. Ignis,” and wasn’t it strange to say his name out loud for the first time in months, “told me.”

“Gladio is the Shield of the Prince, responsible for his safety and much of his physical training. If you’re comfortable with it, and it was heavily impressed on me that it’s fine if you’re not, but he suggested that he guide you through your physical therapy. As a way to get to know each other.”

Prompto stares. “What?” Why would the Shield of the Prince want to get to know _him_?

“Think about it,” the glaive soothes. “You came here to get to know your soulmates, right?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “As long as you don’t go around assassinating people here, they’ll let you go when you’re better, but,” and he runs his fingers through his hair a bit nervously, “look, I get it. They’re intimidating. I have no fucking clue what I would do if I found out that I had a soulmate who was royalty.”

“I’ve known for a decade that at least one of them was nobility,” Prompto interjects.

The glaive nods. “Yeah, but, have you really had time to think that through, while you’re fighting the Empire?” Prompto doesn’t answer. “This is an entirely new aspect of your life that you’re exploring now, and no one blames you for finding it overwhelming, especially considering that your soulmates _are_ royalty and nobility. That’s not something that anyone expects you to be able to just deal with overnight.”

“So my soulmate wants to get to know me by helping me with my arm,” Prompto summarizes. It doesn’t matter that he’s been busy up to this point—this entire mission has gone sideways, and right now, he just needs to survive the rest of it. He doesn’t feel like he’s in immediate physical danger, but nobility is nuts. But he’ll get through it. He can. He can survive anything. He breathes out a deep breath, to make it seem like he’s giving in. “Fine.”

“Really?” says the glaive, and—seriously, what is his name?—in an expression of emotion that’s unsuited for an Kingsglaive. Nox? Nick? Almost. “Great, I’ll let him know. That’ll start in a day or two. Ignis wants to see you too, but that’s just for a tea party. You have those in Niflheim?”

“Tea?” Prompto squints at the glaive, still trying to remember his name. “Yeah. Of course we do. It’s good hot.”

“Hot?” the glaive repeats quizzically. “Oh, right, because it’s always freezing in Niflheim? I can’t even imagine. But yeah, Ignis wants to talk to you under, uh, better circumstances, and he decided that would be afternoon tea, so whenever you’re up to it, that’s where you’ll be going.”

Prompto mulls this over. Nervousness wiggles in his gut like maggots. He wants to go home, and leave this bad mission behind him forever. And they said they wouldn’t force him, so he asks, “Do I have to?”

The glaive’s eyebrows raise. “No, but Ignis is still going to want to come and talk to you. It’s just a matter of setting. If you really want to refuse all contact with your soulmates,” he scratches the back of his neck. He should really stop that, nervous tics for touching the head and face are too obvious and leave you in a poor position to act. “They will want a chance to talk to you. At least one of them. But isn’t this what you came here for? To meet your soulmates?” He tilts his head at him. “If you didn’t want to meet them, why even leave Niflheim?”

Prompto didn’t want to meet them like this. Not while he’s injured, not after being so foolhardy as to be seen by his soulmate while gathering intel, not after a horrific chase that lasted days.

And he’s afraid. Afraid of so many things. Getting caught up in politics he doesn’t understand. Being at others’ mercy. His soulmates hating him.

Hating his soulmates.

“This isn’t how I wanted to meet them,” Prompto says.

The glaive has a calculating look in his eyes. Prompto doesn’t like it. “Yeah, I get that. But, you know, you’re going to be okay. Most people don’t meet their soulmates in the most ideal ways.”

“Yeah?” Prompto pushes. “How did you meet yours?”

Like he expected, the glaive’s face closes off. Just like a headshot. “Do you have any other questions?”

Prompto quietly answers no, and the glaive sets about leaving. “Another guard will come in before I go to keep you company,” he says stiffly. “I’ll inform the Advisor you’re fit for tea this afternoon.”

He goes to the door and knocks on it, and soon he’s gone, replaced by another man in the black, Kingslgiave uniform.

Prompto watches him go and be replaced, silently.

And finally, recalls his name. It was Nyx.  

…

His soulmate’s eyes are narrowed at the table. Ignis doesn’t know what’s wrong. He chose afternoon tea specifically because the engagement lacked the multitudes of necessary utensils. And tea is popular and famous in Niflheim, so it should be familiar to Prompto, as well as the numerous Niflheim appetizers and desserts. The recipes were difficult to obtain as Niflheim cuisine isn’t exactly popular in Insomnia, for obvious reasons, but there were Niflheim restaurants in certain districts. Their proprietors were happy to share their recipes with compensation.

With just enough compensation, they even demonstrated to Ignis how to make the dishes. And as he doesn’t know Prompto’s taste, Ignis and the Citadel chefs brought several different options, with thin, savoury pancakes known as _blinchik_ with farmer cheese and doughy buns filled with mushrooms and beef called _pirozhki_ as appetizers. For the more typical sweet tooth that goes along with afternoon tea, confectionery _zefir_ , some chocolate covered prunes, and a few small pieces of the cake, _ptichye moloko_.

The presentation is beautiful, but not overwhelming. Ignis takes care to have a bit of everything, as a resistance fighter who borders on paranoia would have reason to fear poison.

And yet, his soulmate sits there, poking and picking at the _blinchik_ , expression annoyed and confused. Ignis is gratified to see that he is taking some bites of the food—tentatively, certainly, but eating nonetheless—but he seems no less puzzled.

“Is something the matter?” Ignis asks. He has an agenda for this meeting, but he had thought that he would be able to set his soulmate at ease with this set up. It appears, unfortunately, that he was mistaken. Most distressingly, Ignis can’t say for what reason he was mistaken.

Blues eyes flicker up to him and back down. His face is tense as he sips his black tea. Prompto sets down the small tea cup with a far too noisy clatter. “Nothing’s the matter,” he says, with accented Lucian. “It’s really good.” Despite this, he still appears _agitated_. Ignis waits, and it pays off when he asks, “What is this?”

That is not what Ignis expects to hear. Not at all. “What?”

His soulmate fidgets, eyes darting around. He did that when they met last in that hospital room, where they had made the poor decision to restrain him. Is it a sign of panic? Is he looking for an escape route? Or is it a nervous tic? “What is this?” he repeats, unsure. “This food.”

Ignis is baffled. “This is Niflheim cuisine.” At his soulmate’s blank, uncomprehending expression, he says, “It’s a _blinchik_. A staple of Gralea, or so I was led to believe.” Did the restaurant propriators _lie_? Oh, Ignis was going to have _words_ for them…

But for so many of them to lie the exact same way? No, something else was happening. Ignis missed something.

“Not anything I have ever had,” Prompto says. Ignis’ answer did not explain anything, but his soulmate is relaxing incrementally regardless. “It is really good, though. What’s this stuff in it?”

“Cheese,” Ignis mutters, off-kilter.

“Really? Cheese doesn’t taste like this,” he says, eating a bit more. “And this is really supposed to be tea? Why don’t we have cream and sugar?”

“Yes,” Ignis answers, a hunch forming in his mind. “A very popular type of green tea from the southern region of Niflheim.”

“I’ve never had it before. It is weird,” Prompto says, confirming Ignis’ suspicions without effort. Of course. Prompto, his soulmate, is a resistance fighter from Gralea. With what little they know of his life prior to his arrival in Insomnia, it was likely very risky and with few luxuries, if any at all. Ignis was a fool to think that Prompto would have had a chance prior to enjoy Niflheim delicacies.

 _Well, shit,_ Ignis thinks.

“I’m not sure if I like it,” Prompto says. “I have never had tea without cream and sugar, but that tea was always terrible. It was undrinkable without them.”

“Then why did you drink it at all?” Ignis asks. He might have failed putting Prompto at ease with cuisine and tea from his home, but perhaps he can salvage this still.

“It’s warm!” Prompto exclaims. “What other reason do you need? I’d drink piss if it kept me warm in the winter.”

Ignis has nothing to say for that. “Well, I do hope you enjoy this tea more than that.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course. It doesn’t taste anything like piss at all,” he says reassuringly.

“Ah,” Ignis says, “that’s good then.”

Now, at least, Prompto contently chows down on the food. For a session of afternoon tea wherein Ignis meant to obtain more information about his wayward soulmate, it has already been quite illuminating, and the light it has shed is all quite troubling.

And it’s more than enough than Ignis needs. It is not direct confirmation, but it applies to what they already knew and suspected. The fear, the panic, the escape… in hindsight, it was a terrible mistake to restrain their soulmate in such a way. They should have known better. Their intel has been frustratingly limited with the resistance’s movements the past few years, to the point where the Citadel believed that the Niflheim resistance had been crushed entirely.

Now it is clear that they had been forced into utmost secrecy, not even being able to trust enough to find Lucian spies for information and supplies. The situation must have been more fraught than they had ever suspected.

And so much more dire, if even a modicum of what Gladio and Ignis suspected to be true.

Shortly after they had received news from the Kingsglaives that their soulmate had been located and was being brought in willingly, Gladio told Ignis of his suspicion. “Try not to touch him,” Gladio said in the privacy of his chambers. “I’m not sure if it was the restraints or when I touched his head, but… I think he’s been abused, at some point or another.”

“You read all of that from your short interaction with him?” Ignis asked, but Gladio would be the one to notice something like that. He was awfully perceptive.

“Yeah, just through how he reacted… did you notice anything when you spoke with him?”

“He was upset,” Ignis said, recalling the interaction. Of course he was upset. “He asked several times to be freed, and…” Wait. There was a distinct moment when their soulmate had visibly withdrawn from Ignis and the conversation, as much as he was able. It was after Prompto’s joke, about how meeting his other soulmates while they were tied to a bed. Ignis had flushed, stuttered, taken aback by the _imagery_ of that, and—and Prompto had withdrawn.

Oh no.

Guilt curled inside him, twisting unpleasantly. Ignis had been rather taken with the image of his soulmates, _willingly_ tied up and at his mercy, but only willingly. But, when Prompto had said it, Ignis had reacted and he should have _known better_ —it was not the time or place for such ideas to have any place in his thoughts. Functionally, Prompto _was_ a prisoner, even if a rather special case, and the power divide made the entire situation completely unethical so that it could not even be thought, let alone entertained.

“I—I need to sit down,” Ignis said. Gladio followed him voicing concern, and when he’s seated, he answered, “I think I made him uncomfortable, when I spoke with him. I—” How could he explain this? This is _shameful_. But he had to. Gladio should know this. “—he made a joke about being tied down, and I—thought I had masked my reaction, but I evidently did not.”

Gladio was still. “React how?”

“Just a stutter. Might have had a flush. I shouldn’t have—the image came unbidden, but I shouldn’t have—”

“Iggy, relax,” Gladio took his hand, warm and calloused. His thumb rubbed soothing circles on Ignis’ wrist. “I’m not blaming you for having a reaction. Just tell me what happened.”

Ignis recounted the exchange, of Prompto sarcastic statement that made Ignis blush and stutter, and his increase in tension afterwards. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but with what you’ve said… Sweet Shiva, what if he’s been sexually assaulted. What if he thought—” Ignis stopped again. “We need to tell the Kingsglaive to give him as respectful a berth as possible…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Gladio said, eyeing Ignis with some concern. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, fine. Of course I’m fine,” Ignis said, developing a desperate edge as he continued, “I’m not the one who was possibly sexually assaulted in my unknown and mysterious past as a Niflheim assassin!”

“Whoa, okay,” Gladio said coming forward embrace Ignis. He held him tightly as he continued, “Look, the restraints were a bad idea. They made sense at the time, but a load of behemoth shit in hindsight. Of course he freaked out. We’re not going to make that mistake again, okay?”

Ignis took a deep breath. “I may have permanently fucked this up, Gladio.”

“No,” Gladio said firmly, pulling away to face him with his hands resting warm and strong on his shoulders. “Even if we never have a good relationship with our soulmate, that’s something that rests on all of us, not just you. But we can’t go into this assuming it will fail. Be cautious, fuck yeah, he’s still an assassin, but it’ll take a while, and even if our relationship with him is never like what the three of us have, hopefully we can still be friends.”

In front of him, Prompto picks his slice of _ptichye moloko_ , having stuffed several _pirozhki_ and _blinchik_ into his mouth already. Should Ignis request a second round of appetizers for him? He eats like he’s been starving for his entire life, which Ignis should have expected. But too much would be unhealthy and even dangerous for Prompto. He makes a mental note to ensure he gets another small meal in a couple of hours.

It’s an appropriate part of the meal to continue more intense discussion, so he moves onto the second item of his agenda. “Prompto, how well versed are you in Lucian politics?”

Prompto snorts. “Man, I’m not even versed in _Niflheim_ politics, and I fought the Empire.”

Baffled, Ignis asks, “If you don’t understand Niflheim politics, then how did you—?”

“You don’t need to understand politics to make a headshot,” Prompto answers after swallowing a mouthful of cake. “The others found targets for me, and I’d stake them out and—” Here, Prompto takes his index finger and thumb, lifts it to his head, and mimics shooting it while saying, “— _boom_. Gone.”

So this is the fear the Citadel has for assassins. Well-founded, Ignis thinks, to fear people willing to shoot whatever target a finger points at.

Ignis’ own hypocrisy catches up with him before he even finishes the thought. Is it really so different here, with their Kingsglaives? Ignis deals with them enough to know that the information their glaives receive are limited at best, and practically nothing at worst. Perhaps that is simply how people treat assassins, as extensions of the guns they wield.

And, thinking of it, Prompto will likely know more than he believes he does. “Well, what happens in Niflheim when two people who are the same sex are soulmates, but must produce an heir?”

“What, for like, inheritance?” Prompto asks, squinty-eyed at Ignis. “Don’t you call them… uh, what’s the word—consort? Is the word consort here?”

“Yes, it is,” Ignis says, relieved. “It is a title that grants the individual a position of respectability, though often very little power. Consorts are common when a person of rank already has their soulmates, but must produce an heir. Do soulmates often marry or form partnerships in Niflheim?”

Prompto stares at him. “Uh… I don’t really know.”

Well, that was something to ask their spies at some point. Or whatever ambassador this Aranea sends their way. “Well, in Lucis, most people with romantic soulbonds marry or otherwise make their soulmate their primary partner. This is true for the nobility as well—when heirs are needed, we also have consorts, that are often politically advantageous arrangements. However, soulmates have also proved a bit of a conundrum for nobility, as a nobleman’s soulmate may not be noble themselves.”

“Like me,” Prompto says. He doesn’t appear bothered by this, now munching on another _zefir_. The food is almost gone.

“Quite. Then you don’t have a title in Niflheim?” It seems unlikely, given how Niflheim hasn’t made a peep about Prompto, even though news that Prompto was wanted by the Kingsglaive must have reached them by this point. But perhaps Aranea slapped him with a title after the assassination.

There was always the possibility that he was of noble Niflheim birth, but nothing Ignis has seen or heard indicates anything of the sort.

Prompto almost laughs. Incredulous, he asks, “What? No. Of course not.”

“Well, then,” Ignis says, “In Lucis, when nobility finds that their soulmates are of common birth, it’s usual practice to give them a title, no matter how small, to ensure their continued safety and justify their ongoing protection.”

Ignis can see the exact moment where Prompto realizes what he’s saying. His eyes grow comically wide. “ _What_?”

“We’re giving you a barony,” Ignis states. “Nothing that actually requires oversight, just some old mining land called _Argentum_ that was particularly bountiful with silver for a time—”

Prompto’s hands flail. “What—I— _what_?”

“We’re giving you a barony,” Ignis states again. “You can’t be without a title and be the Prince’s soulmates. Even if it were just myself or Gladio, you would need one, but especially with Noctis. It’s for your protection.”

“I don’t _want_ your protection,” Prompto says, anger flaring up. “We saw how well that worked before!”

“ _Political_ protection,” Ignis stresses. “Tell me, Prompto, as an assassin—if _you_ found out that your noble target had a common born soulmate that he had just discovered, would you or would you not immediately set out to target them?” The anger deflates from Prompto a bit. Good. Ignis continues, “ _And_ nobility is ruthless. I’m sure you’ve seen that, in Niflheim, but nobility is far more dangerous when there is no promise of the night ending with a head shot.”

A bit unwillingly, the corners of Prompto’s lips twitch up.

“To minimize questions about your background, we need to grant you a barony. You won’t be required to do anything, do not fear. Merely to allay questions. We’ll say it’s for your brave actions in the assassination of the Empire, which has let us call a ceasefire and possibly end the war. The nobility and press will lap it up like dogs.”

“A barony,” Prompto says slowly. He sighs and slumps into his chair. “Okay.”

Ignis waits a moment for any more protests but when they are not forthcoming, he gets down to business. “Wonderful. I’ll draw up the paperwork, and when I have, we’ll go over and have you sign it.” As well as notorized, with approval from the King and Council, but they can discuss that later. With business out of the way, Ignis turns back to the food, which is now gone. “Would you like any more tea or appetizers?”

“Oh, um,” Prompto says. “Yeah? These portions are really small. And I think I like this tea. What’s it called?”

“Gunpowder green tea. One of my favorites. While I generally prefer coffee, some meals are not quite the same without tea.”

“I like it. Doesn’t even need milk,” he says as he takes a sip.

“What sort of tea did you drink in Niflheim?” Ignis asks. Prompto said earlier that the tea he drank was unpalatable without additives, but for what he knew, Niflheim took great pride in their tea culture.

“Black tea.”

Ah, there were some black teas that were best with milk and sugar. “Oh, like chai teas?” Prompto’s face creases in confusion. “It wasn’t oolong or Darjeeling you had with milk and sugar, was it?”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean, just black tea. That’s all. What’s darjeeling and oolong?”

“Different types of black tea, also popular in some regions of Niflheim. I see a tea taste testing is in order,” Ignis says, as he waves to one of the waiters. The waiter and Ignis both ignore how Prompto’s eyes track the waiter uncomfortably. “You must try some oolong. If you enjoy the gunpowder green tea, you’ll likely enjoy many varieties of black tea. And they pair nicely with the appetizers as well. What did you eat in Niflheim?”

“Soup,” Prompto answers easily. “With any kind of vegetables. Like beets, cabbage… I really like potatoes. Meat, whenever we could, but meat was always a little hard to get a hold of.”

Ignis nods and smiles. “Well, I hope you’ll stay long enough to have a chance to explore different the various culinary pleasures Lucis offers.”

Prompto blushes and stammers, “Y-Yeah, I’d like that.”

Ignis watches him carefully for a moment, but whatever warranted that reaction does not appear to be upsetting him. He relaxes, and quite comfortably begins to talk about Lucian culinary traditions. Not the best of beginnings, but at least food is common ground amongst all people. It does not smooth the rocky start between the two of them—much more time and effort is required for that—but it is a pleasant enough afternoon tea.


	6. Baron Argentum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto and Gladio bond. Prompto and Ignis do not.
> 
> Also, Prompto and Noctis finally are introduced properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the comments y'all <3 Also please note--I update the tags with any relevant content or warnings as I go, so if you're trying to avoid anything, keep an eye on those. 
> 
> I know Noctis hasn't really had much of a chance to shine, but don't worry. He's worth the wait.

There are more awkward situations than carefully guiding his soulmate’s arm through exercises after their first disastrous meeting, but it’s still pretty high on Gladio’s list. Prompto’s definitelyuncomfortable with being touched, tensing and flinching at his every movement.

It’s a problem. Gladio needs to distract him.

“So were you born in Gralea?” Gladio asks, guiding Prompto through a rotational exercise.

Prompto flinches. Shit. He thought that would be a neutral question. “Yeah, pretty much,” he mumbles, not making eye contact.

He needs to switch track. He tries, “Do you have any family?”

Prompto doesn’t flinch, but he does go still. “Yes,” he says shortly, with no intention to continue.

Shit. “What are they like?”

“Gralean,” Prompto answers, mechanically going through the exercises, still tense.

“Okay,” Gladio says. His thoughts scramble as he searches for another conversation topic. “What’s your favorite gun?”

“Headshot,” Prompto says. “My rifle.”

“Oh,” Gladio says. “And it’s called Headshot because you make head shots with it.”

“Yup.”

“Okay,” Gladio says. “What do you do to relax? When you weren’t sniping people?”

“Read, mostly,” Prompto says, shrugging. “Couldn’t really go at whenever I wanted to.”

“Yeah?” Gladio reads, too! Finally, something with promise. “What do you read?”

Gralean spills from Prompto’s mouth in an uninterested tone, and it takes Gladio a moment to parse out the meaning. When he does, he responds with, “You read _Dignity and Discrimination_?”

Eyebrows rising, Prompto says, “ _You_ read it?”

“Yeah!” They have something in common! “I learned Gralean so I could read it in its original language!”

Prompto stares at him. He’s not tense or flinching, though. Gladio might count this as a win. Depending on how this goes. So he quotes, in his accented Gralean, “’I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading!’”

Prompto says, “ _What_?”

With some embarrassment creeping in, Gladio explains, “It’s, uh, a quote from the book—”

“No, I—I know that,” Prompto says. “You mean you _actually_ learned Gralean because you wanted to read a shitty romance book?”

“ _Dignity and Discrimination_ is a classic,” Gladio argues. “The Lucian translation loses so much of the original meaning. Even the most recent translation loses how _witty_ Lisa is, and it fails to account for how nuanced her arguments are. It fails to be a commentary on social norms. Though the translation by Chartam is better than the others—it says a lot about what upper class life was like in Niflheim at the time, other translations seem to try to pretend it’s Lucian, and not Niflheim.”

Prompto stares at him. Gladio fidgets, wondering if maybe that was a bit too much, but he says, “I haven’t read it in Lucian before.”

“Oh, well,” Gladio says, “Chartam’s is the best. There’s new translations every few years, but Chartam’s definitely the best. She’s a Tenebraean immigrant, and had a mother from Niflheim, so she was far more determined to provide an accurate translation than others.” Gladio pauses. “Would you like a copy of her translation? I have it in my room. I can bring it during our next session.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says slowly. “That would be great.”

…

“Awesome,” Gladio says. His face brightens up and Prompto looks away in response. “Have you read any other works by Yanna Alexios?”

“Yeah,” Prompto answers. He can’t believe his soulmate has read her too. “Only a couple of others. They’re hard to find, in Niflheim, because Alexios was so critical of the Empire.”

“She really is,” Gladio says. “Here, move your arm like this. Does it hurt at all, doing that?”

It feels like a stretch, but doesn’t hurt. Prompto shakes his head. He says, “She was alive back when the Niflheim kingdom first became the Empire. The subjects of her books changes over the years, from critique of—of—what’s the fucking word—that thing, male and female? Sometimes neither or both?”

“Gender?” Gladio asks.

“Yes, gender,” Prompto says. “Gender relations. But then she began to write about the Empire in her last novels.”

“Which novels are those?” Gladio asks. “I’ve read _Intelligence and Intuition_ , _Amalia_ , and _Enticement_.”

Prompto nods. “Those are much easier to find, but the Empire did not like the questioning of gender roles either. They were banned. Another of her books, _Solheim Ruins_ , is almost impossible to track down. The Empire actively tried to burn them all.”

Gladio stares at him. “Do you have a copy of it?”

Prompto grins, a bit. “I do. Back in Niflheim, but I have one. They were not successful.” He pauses, and then offers, “You may borrow it sometime?”

“I’d like that,” Gladio says, perking up.

They continue through stretches—ones Prompto can do on his own, some he’ll need help with. The gentle touches are still unnerving, but the panic doesn’t feel as close to the surface.

He startles when there’s suddenly a chirpy and cheerful series of musical notes, emanating somewhere from Gladio’s pocket.

“Ah, that’s our thirty minute warning. We gotta get dressed. Do you need any help?”

Heat burns on his face unpleasantly. “No, I can do it myself.”

“Alright, just let me know if you need me,” Gladio says casually, but the tentatively pleasant mood Prompto had vanishes. He doesn’t _need_ Gladio. He doesn’t need any of his soulmates.

Like he has for the past week, Prompto retreats to the bathroom for privacy. It’s the only place he has access to that doesn’t have cameras. Ignis told him that the footage from the cameras are only viewed if there is an emergency—and they are automatically deleted after a month—but that does little to soothe Prompto’s anxieties. He changes in the bathroom, putting on some of the nicest clothes he’s ever seen that not even his arm sling can ruin.

It takes twenty minutes of picking at his clothes, trying not to make any pained noises when he moves his arm too much. But he does it, and when he leaves the bathroom, Gladio’s waiting for him, in his ridiculous tank top and leather pants. Prompto doesn’t understand his uniform.

“I’m ready,” Prompto says.

“Great, let’s go,” Gladio says, and they go.

...

It’s obviously not the first time Prompto has been to the throne room, but it’s the first time that he’s seen it so occupied. “There’s so many people here,” Prompto whispers to Gladio.

“It’s always like this for an entitlement party,” Gladio whispers back.

“Really?”

“Well, there might be some more people than usual. You’re a bit of a peculiarity,” Gladio says. He looks at Prompto’s face, and quickly adds, “Because of the assassinate the Emperor deal, not the—well, you know,” gesturing, to Prompto’s added horror, to his right wrist where a mess of scars lay. “People get baronies pretty often, either because they’re someone’s soulmate or they’re important and have earned some land and a title, or just some quirks of the inheritance laws. Most people here are assuming you’re getting a barony for the assassination.”

Prompto stares at him, pleasure tingling in his chest. “I’m getting a barony for killing the Emperor?” A smile pulls at his lips, and he tries not to show it.

“For giving us our first chance of peace,” Gladio says. He peers down at Prompto. A waiter with a tray of food passes by, and Gladio picks a morsel off of it. It looks like a piece of bread with cheese on it, with some other random things. Prompto doesn’t know if it’s Lucian food or rich people food. “I’m glad you’re, ah, pleased?”

“Killing the Emperor is the best thing I’ve ever done,” Prompto says.

“Well, a lot of people in this room would agree with that,” Gladio says.

“Indeed we would,” says a voice, and Prompto’s turned around and ready before the words sink in. “Good reflexes!” says the man who spoke, old, tall, muscular. Military, if all of those pins on his fancy clothes and his buzzcut mean anything in Lucis. Prompto tenses, immediately disliking how intimidating this stranger is and how confident he is walking into their conversation and in Prompto’s space, but Gladio relaxes and grins.

“Hey, Dad,” Gladio says. Prompto freezes. Gladio’s father, the Shield of the King. Prompto’s heard rumors of his prowess in battle. About how many times he’s saved the King of Lucis’ life from Emperor Iedolas’ assassination attempts. Gladio sobers and clears his throat. “ _Lord_ Amicitia. Have you met Prompto officially?”

“I have not,” says Gladio’s Dad the Lord Amicitia with a small smile. Prompto doesn’t think they look much alike, Gladio being taller and darker than his father. “I am Lord Clarus Amicitia, Gladiolus’ father—” Gladio’s full name was _Gladiolus_? Like the flower? “—which would make me your bond father.”

Bond father. Prompto’s heard that term before. It’s common among people who have parents. A way of acknowledging your child’s soulmate as part of the family. Prompto doesn’t have any family, aside from Aranea and the Resistance. He forgets, sometimes, that other people do.

It never occurred to him that his soulmate’s families would want to acknowledge Prompto as family. Bond family is normal. Expected.

Rejecting your child’s soulmate as bond family isn’t common, but if it were to happen to anyone, it would be Prompto.

Mouth dry, Prompto stutters, “It’s nice to meet you, sir. I—I mean, Lord Amicitia.” He curses himself, certain that he managed to mangle his bond father’s name with his accent.

“Just call me Clarus,” says his bond father. “After all, we’re family.”

Prompto’s breath freezes in his lungs, and he tells himself, _He doesn’t know me. I’m nothing to him. Just being_ one _of his son’s soulmates doesn’t make him_ my _family._ Clarus’ eyes are kind, though, and genuine. _He doesn’t know anything about my life. Aranea is my family. Not him._

“Dad,” Gladio says, interrupting Prompto from his thoughts. “Why don’t you tell Prompto what’s involved with tonight?”

“Ah, of course,” Clarus says. “It’s actually very little pomp and circumstances, for the entitlement party for a barony. It’s mostly just a party—nothing to worry about,” he adds, and Prompto flushes at how obvious he is. This is why he’s an assassin. He can’t lie or spy if his life depended on it. All he can do really is kill people. “Everything’s already signed, as Ignis gave you your paperwork earlier and the King and Council signed our part earlier today. In a little bit, after everyone’s had a glass of wine, they’ll call for quiet, you and the King will go up to the throne, say a line, he’ll say his line, and then it’ll be time for more drinks and food.”

Right. Simple enough. “Yeah, that’s what Ignis said, too.” He can do this. He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to swear fealty to a King that isn’t his, but what does Prompto care about spoken oaths, anyway? If he has to break the fealty, he will. Soulmates or no.

His loyalty is to Aranea first.

Clarus gives him a warm, reassuring, paternal smile. “Here, why don’t we get you formally introduced to Reggie before the ceremony?” The second it takes for Prompto to realize who Clarus means when he says ‘Reggie’ feels like a century. And then, to Prompto’s added horror, Clarus adds, “He’s coming thing way.”

Prompto turns and watches helpless as the King of Lucis strides towards him. He has no words for excuses or escape. He just stands there, terrified of doing or saying anything that will cause them all to turn against him, and take away from fragile freedoms he has.

“Prompto!” The King says. Prompto’s surprised he knows his name, then immediately berates himself for his stupidity. Of _course_ the King knows his name. He’s technically _also_ his bond father, and isn’t that fucking terrifying? “It’s good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Prompto, voice hoarse and tight. As expected, the King doesn’t look like he believes him.

“That’s good to hear,” the King says regardless. “You had us all concerned for such a long time.” With that phrasing, Prompto doesn’t know if he means the past couple months he’s been in Insomnia for or the past several years that they’ve known of his existence. “How are you enjoying the ceremony?”

 _Sure isn’t that much ceremony,_ he thinks but doesn’t say. “It’s fine.” _This_ is why Prompto is an assassin and not a spy. _This is why_. Aranea’s going to laugh herself sick when she hears about what a bumbling fool Prompto has been.

There’s a moment of silence, and Prompto panics over what he said and what he should have said.

“Well,” the King finally says, with a smile that seems more forced than the one before. “The ceremony is nothing to worry about.” Everyone kept _saying_ that, and the more he heard it, the less Prompto believes it. “It’ll be over before you know it.” That makes it sound like a surgery, and Prompto has had plenty of those. It’s never true.

Prompto doesn’t know what to say. Has nothing to say. And the men around him flounder, which is worse, but nothing comes to mind. He barely stops himself from jumping back when the King reaches out to him and puts a warm hand on his shoulder. Pulse racing, Prompto can’t think of anything to get away from the King’s grasp even while he recalls that he has often seen other people’s fathers do such a thing. _It’s a normal fatherly thing_ , he tells himself, even while panic tingles through his limbs. _You’ve seen this before, you idiot. You’ve_ longed _for this before. Stop being stupid_.

The hand is removed and Prompto can breathe again. He refocuses on the King’s face and the panic almost restarts at the furrowed, concerned expression on the King’s face. Is Prompto being too obvious? He might never be a spy, but he’s always been good at keeping his panic attacks hidden.

“Prompto, why don’t we step outside?” Gladio says abruptly, and a little bit too loud. Prompto _is_ being obvious, _fuck_. “The skyline of Insomnia is beautiful from this floor.”

Prompto nods, and Gladio gently guides him out of the room. It occurs to him that the selection of Gladio as his physical therapist was entirely intentional—Gladio’s hand is touching his shoulder, but that, at least, isn’t making him panic. Through the PT, he’s gotten used to his touch.

Before Prompto can get worked up about _that_ , they’re outside, and the cool, fresh air is indeed calming. It’s too warm, even if it’s cool for Insomnia. They have _no idea_ what cold is.

The chatter of the party goers is still quite audible, but the distance helps. Prompto lets out a shuddering breath. It’s not much, not with Prompto painfully aware that Gladio is staring at him. But it’s something.

“It’s a little warm, isn’t it?” Prompto asks, and flinches. Insomnians don’t _talk_ about the weather. In Niflheim everyone does, even though the conversations are never-ending cycles of “It’s fucking cold,” and “Yeah, it is.” It’s too much of a default for Prompto to not use though.

“Oh, um. This is kind of cool for here, actually,” Gladio says. “Though definitely not for someone from Niflheim.” Prompto nods, and has nothing else to say. Gladio clears his throat. “How do soulmates work in Niflheim?”

He takes a moment, but he can’t parse out what that question is supposed to be mean. “What?”

“I mean,” Gladio says. His gaze is no longer piercing Prompto, and he casually and unconcernedly rubs a hand on the back of his neck. “What happens when you find your soulmate in Niflheim? How do you introduce them to family? How does that usually go?” Blood rushes and it’s all he can hear, thinking of Tinia and her soulmate and her dead family, and he’s sure he’s gotten paler, but Gladio doesn’t seem to notice. He still looks awful from his fever—they slapped some cover up on his face before the ceremony and called it a day—so maybe Gladio couldn’t see his already sickly pale face growing paler? Probably the only mercy of the night.

Somehow, Prompto finds his voice. “People don’t find their soulmates in Niflheim. At least, not usually.”

Cocking his head, Gladio asks, “What do you mean?”

“It’s…” Prompto hesitates, but decides there’s no harm in sharing this. “Most children are taught not to write to their soulmates. At least in Gralea—most people I have known through the Resistance fear a Loyalist soulmate, who will sell them out to the Empire.”

Gladio blinks, stunned. “Is… is that common?”

Prompto frowns, staring out at the city, thinking. Insomnia is quite pretty at night, and in the darkness, the lights look like those in Gralea. If it was colder, Prompto would feel practically nostalgic for the long nights he spent in position for a mission.

The shimmering wall, as pretty as it is, destroys the image though. He wonders, now that Aranea is Empress and must focus more on rebuilding Niflheim than taking over Lucis, if they’ll take that down. He knows the Kings of Lucis erected it only when the Empire began their conquest.

“If you were political,” Prompto answers slowly, picking at his sling an absentmindedly. “For Loyalists too, actually. There were some Resistance fighters who found out they had Loyalist soulmates, and all they did was mine information from them.” They never left their specific safe houses, even, if they could avoid it. They coordinated their responses, discussed the best length of time to wait before responding, how to get information but not be suspicious… all with the goal of eventually destroying their soulmates and the regime their soulmates swore allegiance to. Prompto always admired them. He never would have the fortitude it took to do such a mission. “But the danger was much worse for Resistance members… people would think they could trust their soulmates because they are their soulmates.” Tinia’s face, the word BITCH poorly disguised by cover-up, comes inevitably to Prompto’s mind. “But… to be a Loyalist, to serve the Empire faithfully, means that you turn in all wrong-doers, even if they’re your friends. Family. Soulmate. Bond family.”

“Did…” Gladio begins. “Did that happen to someone you know personally?”

Prompto flinches, which is answer enough.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Good guess,” Prompto says. “Yes. Her family was killed when they asked their bond son to help them escape. He betrayed them.”

“Shit,” Gladio whispers. Silence lingers after the expletive, while Prompto desperately and repeatedly tells himself not to reveal too much. Fortunately, Gladio keeps talking. “Most people in Insomnia are happy about their soulmates. It’s still a little rude to ask if someone you’re dating is your soulmate because of the whole—you know, it’s rude to suggest that they’re not—”

“Because only sluts sleep with people who are not their soulmates?” Prompto suggests. “It’s like that in Niflheim too. Or was, really. Most of the people I know either do not trust their soulmates or have lost them, so it’s not an option.” Depsite himself, Prompto chuckles a bit. “Weirdly, the Empire helped us move past that old perspective.”

“We’re moving away from that, too,” Gladio says, leaning onto the railing next to Prompto. It helps the whole situation and discussion feel more casual and companionable. “It’s getting more acceptable to date people who aren’t your soulmates, and a push to accept and understand soulbonds that aren’t sexual.”

“And you didn’t even need an authoritarian government to do it,” Prompto teases, hopefully in a light enough tone to work.

Gladio glances at his face, quickly checking the expression with which Prompto spoke, and it must have passed muster, as he smiles. “It’s still generally a private subject, even though platonic and same-sex soulmates have existed for ages… don’t suppose you know anything about Lucian history, do you?” Prompto shakes his head. “I don’t blame you. Most of the history books are boring. ‘In M.E. 452, Queen Hasta Lucis Caelum the First bonded with Viridia Arbor, and it was through this union that the official Royal title Bonded began.’ Boring, right? It’s actually a thrilling story, though!” Gladio says quite animatedly. “The stuff that could rival Alexios' stories! Queen Hasta’s soulmate is a commoner in Accordo, and they talk through their skin for two decades before they even meet! Her younger brother, Mataris, finds out and tries to have Viridia assassinated, but she bribes the assassin into taking her back to Insomnia! So she and the Queen finally meet! They want to marry, as soulmates usually did, but the Council won’t allow it because Viridia is a woman, and also a commoner and foreigner. So Hasta says, well, fuck that, creates a _new_ title for Viridia so she can be acknowledged as more than Royal Consort and on par with a spouse, and then found a husband who apparently was really understanding.”

“What did she bribe the assassin with?” Prompto wonders.

Gladio grins, the movement given sharp highlights by the lighting. “Historians don’t know. There’s evidence of a woman who was seen often with Viridia and Hasta, who didn’t have much reason to be around them, so there are _theories_.”

Prompto laughs, which quickly turns into a cough. “That’s a good story!”

“The line of Lucis does seem to have pretty good luck with assassins,” Gladio says, something heavy weighing down his words and definitely staring at Prompto again, and the laughs turn into a cough.

“Why do you say that?” Prompto asks.

The intensity of Gladio’s expression softens with a smile, and he leans away from Prompto. “We’re happy we finally found you, even though it hasn’t been ideal. I hope you know that.”

Prompto has nothing to say.

“Feeling up to going back inside? Regis probably wants to do the ceremony soon. And Iggy and Noct haven’t had a chance to say hello.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling better,” he says and they go. “I haven’t seen the Prince, since—” he was hiding outside of Iggy’s window. “I haven’t seen him while I’ve been here.”

Gladio nods. They’re walking close enough to each other that their shoulders brush, and Prompto tries not to flush at the contact. Gladio’s okay. He’s liking Gladio. But that doesn’t change how he’s here. “Yeah, Noct’s been busy, dealing with the Council—they didn’t want him to see you before you got cleared, so he’s been arguing with them about that. He does want to see you,” he assures.

“But the Council has concerns about me,” Prompto finishes.

“Yeah.”

“So the Council knows…” Prompto asks with a vague hand gesture between them.

“They do. It’s not something anyone beyond the Council and guards know, and Noctis gets privacy about us because it wouldn’t do for his potential political marriages to have his—” Gladio glances around, and seeing no one, continues, “—soulmates revealed, so the paparazzi’s actually respect that they shouldn’t dig into his soulmates’ identities. As far as I know, they don’t even know if he has any, let alone more than one.”

Something wasn’t making sense. “But you just said that there’s an official position for unmarried soulmates?”

“There is. Usually one. Having more than one is a little unusual, especially since, uh,” Gladio hesitates. “At least two of them are definitely not platonic.”

Prompto blushes hard. “Oh.”

“Yeah. And we’re all men, so… it gets a little complicated. It’s one of those things that would just be better revealed _after_ Noctis is married, to allay most of the concerns that are going to spring up… And both me and Iggy are already nobility and have official positions close to the Prince, so it’s not like we need the title for anything anyway.”

“Like how I’m getting this barony,” Prompto realizes.

“Right! Exactly,” Gladio says, and they’re now fully back into the crowded throne room.

It’s a little more subdued, and Regis is by the throne. Clarus catches their eyes and waves them over. “You’re back, excellent. It’s time to do the ceremony, before we bring out the other dishes. Prompto, go to the the entrance of the room, and at the que, walk across the throne room until you get to foot of the stairs, kneel, and say the words Ignis instructed you on when Regis asks about your fealty. Are you ready?”

 _I didn’t know I would have to_ kneel. “Yeah.” He has to _kneel_? It’s not even his king! His legs take him to his starting place while he fumes. He’s not even a Lucian citizen! He doesn’t want to—to subjugate himself to _Reggie_.

King Regis starts the speech, and it’s very boring. It’s also not short—too many years of tradition and ceremony for it to be short. At the line, “Today we honor and award Prompto of land and title befitting his achievements, to guarantee him legacy and place in Lucis for all of history. Prompto, please attend to the throne.” Prompto tries not to shuffle forward, but to stride, gracefully, and feels more awkward for it. ‘ _Approach the throne’ is misleading_ , he thinks, as he reaches the base of the tall, tall stairs that lead up to the throne. Looking up at the King strains his neck.

He hates it, hates everything, including Clarus, Gladio, and Ignis, but he kneels. It feels like he’s giving something up as he does, and he reminds himself that an oath means nothing. These people are nothing to him. He still has Aranea and Niflheim. As soon as he can go back home, the promises he makes here won’t matter at all. Their _maneuvering_ of him to suit their agenda, even if they dress it up so it sounds like they’re helping him, will only hold out so far. Prompto is still a prisoner, and prisoners have no choice. He has no friends here, and words spoken and a title received under duress will mean little internationally.

Prompto speaks, and must say it right, as Regis says something too, there’s a polite applause, and everyone moving again to get more food and drinks. The food gets progressively weirder, and Prompto’s not sure if it’s a Lucian or nobility thing. He suspects it’s a nobility thing. Like the gilded fortress in Gralea. He eyes the crowd for someone he knows, but before he can make his way to Ignis, some old man gets in his way and shoves out his hand.

He stares a moment too long at the limb, before realizing, _Oh, duh, shake his hand_ , and accepting it as is appropriate in Lucis. The man says, “Baron Argentum,” which doesn’t even sound like Prompto at all. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I am Lord Aurantiaco Bombacio. Tell me, how are you finding Insomnia?”

Prompto knows well enough that he should _not_ answer that question anywhere close to honestly. Though that might be funny— _It’s too warm and I could do without the imprisonment, but the lights are pretty._ “It’s nice.” The short answer falls flat, and Prompto searches desperately for something else to say. “I, uh, like the food.”

“Ah, yes, I do hope you have a chance to explore all of the culinary delights that Insomnia has to offer,” Lord Oran—tico? Bomba—something—says, wide smile that puts Prompto on edge. “Though, Niflheim has its own culinary art, does it not?”

He must be talking about the food that Ignis served him, that only the rich and noble would have seen in Niflheim. But that’s not for this lord to know. “Yeah—yes, it does.” And to make it believable, “We’re fond of our tea.”

“The tea from Niflheim is magnificent,” the lord says easily. “I’m quite fond of Black Dragon Pearls, which I hear is a specialty in Gralea. That’s where you are from, is it not?”

 _That’s a type of tea?_ Prompto thinks incredulously but doesn’t ask. “I am, yes.”

“So the rumors are true? You’re the assassin that killed the Emperor?”

The moment of indecision and uncertainty makes him freeze. He doesn’t actually know if he should confirm that, but—but Gladio said that most nobles would think that’s why he’s getting a barony.

“Yes,” he decides to say. “That’s true.”

The man smiles, and at last there is something genuine about him. “Good man. Welcome to Insomnia—we are honored to have you.” Prompto nods, a bit relieved, as that sounds like the end of it, and he really would rather be talking to someone he already knows, and he makes to leave. The man’s smile takes an edge to it, and he asks, “So is it because of your presence here that Niflheim’s new Empress hasn’t sent an ambassador?”

Prompto stops. Baffled for too many reasons to come up with a response. He hadn’t even _thought_ that there should be an ambassador, one who he could seek for support and help. It makes sense there wouldn’t be one in Insomnia from Iedolas, but shouldn’t have Aranea sent one as soon as she could? Especially if they have a ceasefire? And on the tails of that thought, why hasn’t Aranea sent over an ambassador? Is there something wrong? She has to know he is here by now, doesn’t she? His face was on TV!

Standing in the middle of his entitlement ceremony, Prompto has a moment of cruel clarity. These people, these Lucians, they have no way of knowing that the new Empress is Prompto’s sister. They’re assuming, as this noble has so helpfully pointed out, that the new regime isn’t happy with Prompto or his actions.

That Prompto’s presence to Insomnia was because he had to flee Niflheim, not because he was sent.

And Aranea, who hasn’t yet sent an ambassador to Insomnia to discuss treaties or peace or Prompto, might have known this. And to maintain that ploy, she couldn’t be in any rush to send an ambassador, leaving Prompto on his own. On his on as a prisoner.

She sent him here on his own so she wouldn’t be responsible for him politically if things went badly.

His sister _abandoned_ him.

Rage bubbles up within him, but grief overwhelms and drowns him. Prompto can’t speak, can barely even remember the man standing in front of him who is still waiting for a response, he can’t—he doesn’t even know if he’ll ever be able to go home again, he can’t deal with this smarmy, scheming, sleezy shit—

“Lord Bombacio,” comes a surprisingly casual voice. Prompto and the Lord turn to find Prince Noctis, who has a deeper voice than Prompto expected. “I see you’ve introduced yourself to Baron Argentum,” he says, slouching and for all appearances, bored by the proceedings. Prompto envies his unaffected composure, real or fake.

“Yes,” Lord… whatever… says. “I was welcoming him to Insomnia.”

The Prince very intentionally quirks an eyebrow. Prompto’s jealousy stews irrationally—he can’t do that, and it looks useful. “Really?” the Prince drawls. “I thought you were just asking him about why Niflheim hasn’t sent over an ambassador. Because Baron Argentum, being here as a guest, and not anywhere near Niflheim for the past several months, he would _obviously_ know about that. But that would be absurd, wouldn’t it?” The Lord fumes visibly. Just as he’s about to formulate a response, Prince Noctis cuts in, still sounding bored out of his mind, “Or, of course, you’re trying to suggest that Prompto _is_ currently in contact with the Empire, and as an official Baron of Lucis as of, oh, three minutes ago, that’s tantamount of accusing him of treason. That’s a serious accusation, Lord Bombacio.” The Prince taps a sip of his wine, still slouching but eyes fixed on the Lord. “Are you going to stick with that?”

The Lord has an expression much like he swallowed some spoiled milk. “I was not trying to suggest anything of the sort. I was only making conversation with my pondering.”

“Well, you might want to keep your ponderings to yourself,” the Prince says. “Your ponderings are easy to misinterpret, and that would just be a mess.”

The Lord looks distinctly green. “I—I will keep that in mind, Your Highness. Please excuse me, Baron Argentum,” he says as he flees.

“Wow,” Prompto says.

“Thanks,” says the Prince, smiling and pleased.

Prompto remembers himself, and flushes. “Oh, um, yeah, thank you. Uh, Your Highness.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Noctis says. “I was just coming by to introduce myself, and that was a serious accusation that couldn’t be left unaddressed.”

“I see,” Prompto says, unsure how to act around his soulmate, the only one of which he hasn’t spoken to before. “Well, thank you again.”

The Prince smiles, and Prompto is relieved to see that it’s a bit awkward. “We should talk more, later, but right now, I need to make the rounds.” Prompto nods, not sure what else to say. The Prince turns to his left, a bit. “Iggy’s over there. It would be best if you hung around either him or Gladio for the evening, okay? We don’t want another Lord Bombacio bothering you.”

“Yeah, I’ll—I’ll do that,” Prompto says, and before the Prince can say anything else, he rushes over to Ignis.

“Ah, Prompto,” Ignis says with a polite smile, and Prompto’s dismay grows. “How are you enjoying your entitlement party?”

Thanks to the Prince’s intervention, the hold his immediate panicked response had on him broke, but in its aftermath and the Prince’s dismissal, he almost wants to cry. Which would… not be absurd for him. He’s always been a crybaby, no matter how bad things have gotten. He had hoped he would toughen up, get used to the way things are at some point, but no. His eyes burn hot and his throat is tightening, but he’s okay right now.

Ignis notices before he can throw off suspicion though, smile fading and brow furrowing. He learns forward into Prompto’s space, and whispers, “What’s wrong?”

Now, Prompto really can’t speak without bursting into tears. He says nothing.

Ignis glances around the room, and Prompto’s not sure what he sees or what conclusions he makes, but he puts a gloved hand onto Prompto’s shoulder and gently guides him away from the party. “We will not be missed for a while. People will want to speak to you, but entitlement parties are more an excuse for a celebration than anything.”

They exit the throne room, the hallways surprisingly dark in comparison. There are some people working and moving about, but the lack of bodies leaves the air mercifully fresher and cooler. The farther they get away from the party, the less Prompto feels like a dam about to break.

They go into an elevator Prompto hasn’t seen before, and Ignis selects the button five floors up. As the doors close and lock and it hums into movement, Prompto is struck by the fear that gripped him when he first met Ignis. His skin goes clammy at the memory of restraints, and while the need to cry dissipates, it’s replaced by a cold, sudden fear. _He didn’t touch me while I was restrained,_ Prompto reassures himself, even as he becomes hyperaware that Ignis was just touching his shoulder while they walked, _there’s no reason why he would try now, just because we’re alone, when he could have when we were alone and I was restrained._

Prompto wishes he had found Gladio instead. He’s easier to get a read on. Still dangerous, still unknown, but less… terrifying.

He glances at Ignis, who is unruffled and calmly typing something on his phone. Prompto has no idea what he’s thinking.

The floor they get out on is practically empty. There’s minimal lighting, enough to find their way, which is down the hall and into an empty room.

Ignis opens the door, and waves Prompto inside. Prompto weighs his options, swallows, and goes in. He takes a few steps into the dark, and hears Ignis follow him, close the door, and lock it.

Prompto squeezes his eyes shut. Gladio really wouldn’t have been better, would he? Prompto’s been alone with him, but there was always a glaive nearby. He’s friendlier, and Prompto thinks he can read him better, but who knows, really? Prompto can be wrong. Gladio could be a better liar. Gladio, like Ignis, could probably do whatever he wanted. A man with his power and position likely isn’t used to being told no.

But they’re the only people Prompto has here. They’re the only people Prompto even knows, and he doesn’t trust them, can’t trust them… but he wants to. He has no one else. But he can’t. They haven’t let him go yet. They say they will, but those are only words. Only action matters.

He can’t trust them, but he needs them. Whatever Ignis is going to do to him here, Prompto will have to take it and just survive. Until he can get away.

The light flicks on while he steels himself, opens his eyes, and he turns around. Ignis is retrieving something out of his pocket when he sees Prompto’s expression and freezes. He’s not sure what Ignis can see in his expression. He wishes he hadn’t gone to Ignis. He forgot about this fear, from that moment that feels like so long ago but was only two weeks.

Could he attack Ignis to escape? Prompto dismisses the idea quickly. Even the idea of attacking his soulmate makes him feel sick, no matter what his soulmate is about to do. Despite the fact that Prompto has felt no immediate connection to any of his soulmates, nothing to suggest that they are in some way, meant to be part of his life, he doesn’t think he could attack Ignis.

And even if he did… the Kingsglaives have caught him twice now. They’ve been gentle with him, so far, and the treatment Prompto has received in the Citadel has been good, but he doesn’t want to test the limits of that patience.

Ignis straightens and strides towards Prompto. “What happened?” Prompto takes in a breath and holds it in. Ignis’ hands skim over his arms. Lets it out. “Prompto, are you hurt? Tell me what’s happened.” On his chest now. Prompto watches them on his body as he would a TV screen, Ignis’ movements becoming more frantic. “ _Prompto_ —shit _—_ ”

The hands push down until Prompto’s sitting on the floor, and he wonders why, when it’ll mess up his fancy clothes, which would be bad for the party.

“Prompto, say something,” Ignis says.

“I’m fine,” Prompto says. “What do you want me to do?”

“What I want you to do…” Ignis repeats. He looks confused and distressed. Prompto doesn’t know why. This was always so straightforward before. It was always—it was—Prompto needs to get through this. He must. What happened before doesn’t matter. Prompto needs to try to focus. Ignis’ hands are still on his shoulders, holding him up. He feels his hands. They are holding him up, but Prompto might as well be in Niflheim.

 _Stop_ , he tells himself. _This is familiar_. He needs to get past this, and quick. Prompto doesn’t remember this well, when it happens, but it’s worse the longer it goes on.

He lurches forwards to fumble with Ignis’ pants’ button with his one available hand. The hands on his shoulders pull back at the movement, and Prompto pops out the button and pulls down the zipper before Ignis’ gloved hands grasp his wrist.

“Prompto, what are you _doing_?” Ignis demands, stunned and alarmed.

Prompto reminds himself to breathe. He’s fine. He’ll get through this, like any every other time. “I just want to get this over with.”

“Get _what_ over with?” Ignis says, and then, horrified, “Oh, _no_ , oh, _shit_. Prompto, I’m not going to—” He pulls away from Prompto and gets up in a hurry, backing towards the door. “I brought you up here so you could cry in peace, not so that I could— _assault_ you, I would never—!” Ignis goes quiet, and then says more softly, “I would never.”

Prompto’s left grasping towards air, no longer knowing what to do with his arms. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, and without that script, Prompto is lost. His arms drop to his sides. Ignis is doing something by the door but Prompto can’t focus on it. He can’t—he must—

He can’t.

…

 _something’s wrong with prompto_ , is the text Clarus receives from Ignis about two minutes after he saw them depart the throne room. Which is reasonable enough—Prompto didn’t seem well when Clarus was speaking to him earlier. The text is followed shortly with their location as precaution, but he assumes Ignis has it taken care of. Alarmingly, his phone dings a couple minutes later with one more text. _Please come here, I don’t know what to do_

Clarus signals to the guards, and he’s out of there. Though a few floors up, Ignis and Prompto didn’t go very far, and he’s at the door in four minutes.

He knocks, and Ignis opens it immediately.

“Oh, thank Shiva,” Ignis says, and opens the door just wide enough for Clarus to slip in. The room is fairly standard for a bathroom in the Citadel, prepared for everything a guest, staff member, or noble might need in terms of toiletries and supplies they might need in emergencies and those inevitable long nights that happen in politics.

There are chairs and couches, but Prompto is sitting on the cold, hard floor. There’s an alarming, vacant look in his eyes. He’s watching them, and he looks alarmed by Clarus’ appearance, but he doesn’t react further. There’s no sign of head injuries or intruders, so Clarus glances at Ignis for answers.

Ignis is quite distressed. And looks… rumpled. He doesn’t recall Ignis looking this distressed in years, not since Gladio got that scar on his face protecting Noctis from a drunk citizen.

“I brought him up here because he looked like he was about to break down,” Ignis says quietly. “But it was—much more serious than I thought. He wasn’t responding to my questions, looking—much like he does now. He—” Ignis takes a deep breath. “—he looked terrified. Of me. And I didn’t understand why, but… he, evidently, he thought that—” He stops. Takes a deep breath. “He thought I brought him up here to _rape_ him.”

That’s not what Clarus was expecting, and his eyes flick to Prompto to gauge his reaction. He does flinch at the word ‘rape,’ but not as violently as he would expect a traumatized and frightened victim would. A bit jerkily, Prompto rearranges himself so his head is pressed into his knees. He couldn’t be more visibly trying to cut himself off from the current situation.

“Gladio suspected he’s been assaulted before, based on his reactions to touch, but I don’t know—I don’t know why—why would he think that _I_ —”

“It’s alright, Ignis,” Clarus says, cutting him off. “Tell me _exactly_ what happened.”

Ignis takes another deep breath. “Noctis sent Prompto over to me after a lord spoke to him, presumably to keep other ambitious nobles away from him. He didn’t look well, so I brought him here so he could have a cry and get cleaned up if he needed. When we got here, he looked terrified. I thought he might be hurt, and was trying to find out what was wrong, and he was unresponsive. And then he…” Clarus stares at Ignis expectantly. Ignis continues, “He undid the button and zipper of my pants. I stopped him and asked why, and he… told me he wanted to ‘get it over with.’” Ignis looks a little sick. Clarus understands. “I pulled away and texted you. I feel—slightly out of my depth, here.”

Clarus nods slowly. “I’m glad you messaged me.” Well, this is quite the clusterfuck. He pulls out his phone and texts his son, _Prompto, Ignis and I will not be returning to the party. Ensure that the party attendees either do not notice or give them a reasonable excuse._

Almost immediately, Gladiolus texts back, _Understood. Everything ok?_

Ignis is pale and shaken, and Prompto is trembling while pressing his face so hard against his knees that it probably hurts. His arm, pinned to his side in his sling, looks like it’s painful. _Yes. I’m with them. I’ll let you know if we need you._ After a moment’s hesitation, he texts Nyx his location and asks for him to be on standby outside the room.

He puts his phone away.

“Ignis,” he says quietly. “Get yourself a glass of water and sit down. I’m going to talk to Prompto.”

Ignis obeys, and once he’s moved farther away, Clarus crouches in front of Prompto. “Prompto, can you hear me?” No response. He tries a few more times, speaking until Prompto looks up. “Hey, Prompto,” Clarus says, with a smile, as those blue eyes focus on him. His face is wet with tears. “I heard you’re having a rough time of things. Can you tell me what I can do to help?”

“I’m fine,” Prompto croaks, sounding very not fine. Clarus had been right earlier then about Prompto’s growing distress, when he first spoke to him.

“You don’t seem fine,” Clarus says softly. “Do you want to get off the floor?”

“Floor?” Prompto repeats. “Where did the party go?”

That’s a bad sign. If he’s losing time and responding infrequently, he might be disassociating. Not that unexpected really, given the trauma he must have experienced in Niflheim. “We left the party,” Clarus says. “Ignis took you to this room so you could have some privacy if you needed, but something went wrong. What happened, Prompto?”

He squeezes his knees tighter to his chest. His fingers are digging into the flesh of his arms, and Clarus worries that he’s going to make himself bleed. Suddenly, he realizes when Prompto might have inflicted those scar wounds his son and his soulmates all have on their wrists. Prompto starts to repeat, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Clarus interrupts, but he’s not sure if Prompto can really hear him. Prompto seems to be losing time, but he’s not sure what to make of the self-injury. Fresh tears are leaking out of his eyes, and Clarus isn’t sure Prompto is aware of that. “Prompto, please tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened. I’m sorry.”

“Ignis says you thought he was going to rape you,” Clarus says directly, and Prompto flinches. “Can you tell me why you thought that?”

“That’s what happened before,” Prompto says, and it’s not unexpected, but still one of the most awful things Clarus has had to hear. Ignis makes a sound from the couch but Clarus ignores him.

Prompto roughly wipes his eyes, no longer letting the tears stream out freely. He also scooches back away from Clarus a bit, so Clarus sits down more comfortably on the floor where he is. He pulls out his hankerchief and holds it out in front of Prompto, who tenses when he sees a hand near him, and then hesitates a moment before taking the proffered cloth to dry his face on.

Clarus waits for a moment for Prompto to collect himself, and says, “When was that?”

“When was what?” Prompto mumbles, looking around the room, as if he doesn’t know where he is. He might not, if he thought they were still supposed to be at the party.

“When you were raped,” Clarus says, as gently as that statement can be.

Prompto mumbles something in Gralean while shaking his head. Clarus suggests, “We don’t need to talk about it now. But I would like to know why you were scared of Ignis, in particular.”

Prompto lets out a sob, that’s only slightly muffled by the handkerchief covering most of his face.

Clarus reviews what he knows about Ignis’ and Prompto’s interactions so far. Prompto stalked Ignis for at least a month, that they know of. And Clarus adds a mental note to check in with Ignis about how he’s doing—that is a lot to suffer through, regardless of how much the inflictor is suffering himself. They had their first proper conversation after they caught Prompto the first time, when he was restrained in their medical wing. Ignis fretted over his health after they caught him the second time. They had afternoon tea so Ignis could get information and inform Prompto of his barony.

That was it, wasn’t it? “Prompto, listen to me—it’s important you tell me why you thought Ignis would rape you.” Clarus trusts Ignis, but there’s always the possibility—if he’s done anything, intentional or not, Clarus needs to know about it. He doubts it, wants to doubt it, but Clarus has been wrong before.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Prompto says when he can speak again. “What’s stopping him?”

“I would never rape _anyone_ ,” Ignis exclaims from the couch.

The change in Prompto is instantaneous. He is on the floor, knees tight against his chest, and then he’s not, and he’s yelling. “WHY WOULD I BELIEVE THAT?” Reflexively, Clarus is also standing up, but he backs away to be as nonthreatening as possible. “WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I BELIEVE _ANYTHING_ YOU OR ANYONE ELSE HERE SAYS? I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF YOU’RE EVER GOING TO LET ME _GO_!”

Before Ignis can reply and likely make things worse, Clarus cuts in with, as soothingly but firmly as possible, “You’re right.” Prompto, chest heaving from his breathing and eyes red from crying, turns away from Ignis to him. “Actions speak louder than words, and you have no reason to believe that we’ll let you go. You have no reason to believe that Ignis or anyone here wouldn’t hurt you in such a vile way that you’ve been hurt before. There is nothing I can say for you to believe me. So, for now, we will prove ourselves through what actions we can until we do let you go.” Thankfully, Prompto seems to be continually focused on him. That’s a small mercy. “You know now, at least, that neither Ignis nor I will sexually assault you. Do you agree?”

Prompto’s face twists in confusion. It’s a very expressive face. “Agree that you won’t assault me?”

“That our actions demonstrate that you are safe with us,” Clarus clarifies. “Neither one of us are interested in taking advantage of you or hurting you, and our actions show that. Do you agree on that?”

Prompto fidgets. His injured arm is tensed awkwardly in the sling—it’s probably hurting him. He makes another note to send the doctor to check on him as soon as possible. “I guess.”

“I am not asking you to agree to trust us unconditionally,” Clarus says. “Just that, hopefully, at this point, you believe that we are not seeking to rape you.” Prompto flinches. And, after a few, drawn-out moments, he nods. “As for your other concern, the doctor has set your release date to be the end of the month. I know our promises mean little to you, but at the end of the month, you will see that we intend to keep our promises to you. You will have the freedom to come and go as you please, as a Baron of Lucis.” Prompto is silent. Clarus tries, “This isn’t as solid an action as I wish we could provide. Saying we’re going to let you go isn’t worth anything until we let you go. But you’re safe here. Ignis, Gladio, Noctis, and I—none of us mean you any harm.”

Silence hangs in the room oppressively as he waits for Prompto’s response. Finally, with much effort, Prompto says, “Okay. I—okay. I can—give you that, I guess, for now.”

“Good. Now, given this emotional evening, we should all forego the rest of the party, and return to our rooms—”

“But don’t I need to be there?” Prompto interjects. Despite his protest, he looks exhausted and terrible. Without the energy of his anger, he’s slouching in on himself. Weakly, he continues, “It’s, uh, for me, isn’t it?”

“I’ve taken care of it. I think we would all be better off getting some rest,” he turns around and goes to the door and opens it. Glaive Ulric is lounging against the opposite wall, eyes sharp despite his relaxed pose. With an internalized sigh, Clarus realizes that Ulric must have at least heard some of that conversation. “Glaive Ulric, please walk Prompto back to his room and make sure he is undisturbed for the night. He’s rather tired.”

“Yes, sir,” Ulric says, saluting.

A concern occurs to Clarus. “Wait a moment,” he says to Ulric, and closes the door.

“Prompto,” he says. “Are you comfortable with Glaive Ulric?”

Prompto sniffs, and wipes his nose with the back of his arm. “Who?”

“Nyx,” Clarus clarifies.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, he’s alright,” Prompto says. After a pause, he adds tentatively, “He never touches me,” and even more softly, “I would really rather not be touched.”

“That’s good to know,” Clarus says easily. “We’ll do our best to avoid any unnecessary contact in the future.” He opens the door again, and says, “Alright, Prompto, Nyx here is going to escort you to your room.”

“Okay,” Prompto mumbles, and shuffles out of the room, avoiding getting too close to Clarus as he leaves or making any eye contact. Ulric, in his rather naturally disarming manner, walks next to Prompto as they go down the hall.

Clarus closes the door. Pulls out his phone and texts Ulric, _Give him space and send me updates. Let me know if anything happens. Anything you heard tonight is not to be repeated._ To Titus, he sends, _Inform all Glaives to avoid touching Prompto unless absolutely necessary. Tell them to be discrete about this—no need to make it obvious to him or others._ To Gladio and Noctis, he sends, _I need to meet with you and your soulmates tomorrow. We need to debrief_

And finally, he turns back to Ignis, who is still sitting on the couch, as defeated as Clarus has ever seen him. “Are you alright, Ignis?”

“I seem to have inadvertently caused a great deal of trouble tonight,” Ignis says in lieu of answering.

“No, son, that trouble was brewing regardless of what you did. Taking Prompto aside tonight just brought it out sooner than it might have. And that was good—we needed to address those fears before anything worse happened.”

Ignis makes a broken sound, and Clarus realizes that _Ignis_ is crying. “What could be _worse_ than my soulmate thinking I’m going to _rape_ him? Which he thinks because he’s _been raped_ before! Which _happened_ while we were _ignoring_ him, and—and we should have helped him—”

“Ignis, listen to me,” Clarus says. “We don’t know the details of what Prompto went through in Niflheim, and I am certain we will learn many horrific crimes that were committed against him during his time here. We must be prepared to deal with learning about those crimes, while also prepared for how Prompto likely _will_ lash out as he deal with the trauma.” Ignis’s arms are crossed tightly around his chest, and Clarus thinks of Prompto with his knees close against his body. “You did the right thing sending for me. But you must be prepared because I doubt this will be the worst of it, especially if he’s never had a chance to really process the trauma.” He walks over to the couch and settles down next to Ignis. “But we’ll deal with it. We all have each other, and we’ll help him through it. And now, you didn’t answer my question—are you okay?”

“No,” Ignis says. “No, I am not. I didn’t know what to do. I thought he was injured, and I was checking him for injuries, and he just reached over to my pants and he looked—so out of it—”

“He reached for your pants?” Clarus repeats, alarmed. “He assaulted _you_?”

Ignis startles at his tone of voice. “No, I mean, yes, he undid the button and zipper—when I asked him what he was doing, that’s when he said he just wanted to ‘get it over with.’ That’s when I realized that he thought I was going to rape him.”

Clarus sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “What a mess.”

“Indeed,” Ignis says. “I’m fine. In that regard, at least. I don’t feel assaulted, or violated. I’m mostly just… horrified, at the situation.”

Clarus sighs. “I understand, Ignis.” He carefully considers the man who he’s practically helped raise. Ignis rarely cries, and the amount of stress for him to do so, even around someone he trusts, must be much more than he lets on. “Whatever Prompto has gone through,” Clarus says slowly. “That does not excuse him from hurting you.”

“I’m fine,” Ignis repeats.

“You don’t have to be. You’ve gone through a lot recently.” Ignis isn’t looking at him. “Ignis, look at me,” and he does so, but it’s obvious he would rather not. “You’ve been stalked and assaulted in just a couple of months, both of which are serious matters. We can address the trauma Prompto has undergone while also addressing the harm he’s done to you.”

Ignis looks torn. And exhausted. Clarus saves him the trouble of replying now. “Why don’t you head to bed, too? We can continue this another time.”

“Yes, I think I shall,” Ignis murmurs.

“Tomorrow morning, I intend to speak to you, Gladio, and Noctis about this new information and what it means,” Clarus says. “We need to discuss how we do not inadvertently make Prompto feel threatened. It is unlikely we will avoid all future incidences, but we should be able to ensure he doesn’t have to fear for his bodily autonomy from us.”

Ignis nods, tiredly. “Thank you, Clarus.”

“Of course, Ignis.” They stand up, and Clarus pulls him into a hug. “It’s going to be fine. Now go and sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ’I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading!’ is a quote from Pride and Prejudice, on which Dignity and Discrimination is modeled after. Likewise, Yanna Alexios and all of the works Gladio and Prompto discuss are based on Jane Austen and her actual works. Solheim Ruins could be compared to Mansfield Park, but it and Yanna Alexios' fate is what I consider a reasonable conclusion for an author like Jane Austen in a country like Niflheim.
> 
> And yes, I spent way more time than I should have coming up with an appropriate name of this Jane Austen parallel and the titles of her books.


	7. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto sets some boundaries.
> 
> And finally, Noctis.

Prompto has never felt so alone.

He wants to leave, but he has nowhere to go. He has no friends here in Insomnia, and his own sister has left him at these strangers’ mercy. He doesn’t know when Aranea will send anyone to help, or if she ever will.

He has longed for home for so long, but now he doesn’t even know what he can expect. Would he even be welcomed back? Would it threaten the tentative peace Lucis and Niflheim are both hoping for through this ceasefire? Unfortunately, he already knows the answer to that question. It would. It would just be the nail in the coffin of evidence that he’s collaborated with the new Niflheim government. He can imagine it now—Aranea’s furious face on his return home, telling him that he shouldn’t have come back, and that now they’ll have to go back to war.

Ifirit’s flaming balls, knowing Prompto’s luck, Lucis would probably call him a traitor because of this shiny new title they’ve thrown at him. He curses himself for letting them go through with it. It had seemed reasonable when Ignis—fuck, Ignis, Prompto really fucked _that_ up, didn’t he?—and really, what other choice did he have? If these people wanted him to do something, he had to do it.

Burning heat stings at his eyes and his throat chokes up. Great. Now he’s back to crying again.

It’s not well illuminated in the hallways of the Citadel, so as long as Prompto doesn’t make any noise, Nyx isn’t likely to notice. But Prompto needn’t have worried—when they get into the elevator that is very well-lit, and shame threatens to consume Prompto’s whole being for how _stupid_ he was when he was in this elevator with Ignis, Nyx makes absolutely no indication that he can even hear Prompto’s poorly-muffled sniffling.

The hallways all look the same, but Prompto begins to recognize the art on the walls leading to his room. The idea of solitude, in the only space he has for himself, relieves some of the tension in his shoulders. Not by much—he’s never been in the room without Nyx or Gladio or some other glaive to watch him, but being alone would be worse.

Being alone in a locked room would be much worse. The idea alone makes Prompto feel sick.

They enter the room, turn on the lights, and Nyx locks the door. Prompto, despite himself, flinches at the raw familiarity. Shame burns and bubbles.

Prompto makes a beeline for the bathroom and locks himself into it. Nyx doesn’t say a word—the bathroom has no windows.

Even if it did, it wouldn’t matter. Prompto has nowhere else to go.

He turns on the shower for the noise, but the steaming water tempts him into getting into it. He takes off his sling, carefully, shoulder radiating pain since he strained it while he was out of it. It hurts, and he probably shouldn’t be doing this, but he doesn’t care. The water is warm and clean, and the shower stall is as immaculate as a stall can get with a professional team of housekeepers maintaining it regularly. Prompto sits down in the stall, and pulls his knees to his chest, but this time with more care for his arm.

The hot water pounding onto his skin is soothing. He takes a deep breath. A few times. And with the noise of the shower, he can almost pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

It does exist. Encroaching thoughts about his fuck up don’t stay absent for long.

Why, _why_ , couldn’t he just keep it together? Prompto _knows_ better than that—he’s survived because he knows better than that. Acting too quickly without the appropriate cues got you killed in the labs. Waiting and passively letting the scientists and guards do whatever they wanted in the name of their science was safer.

With the restraints they used for their experiments, they couldn’t really do anything to make it go faster anyway.

It’s Prompto’s fault. He should have read the situation better. It’s hard, when he gets like he does, to get through it all, but how hard would it have been to just bide his time a little? Let Ignis set the stage.

Oh, _Ifrit._ He undid Ignis’ pants, he actually undid Ignis’ pants, _he shouldn’t have fucking done that._

Six have mercy, if he had kept it together just a _little_ bit, they could have gotten through whatever Ignis would have deemed comforting for whatever he thought was wrong, they could have gone back to the party, and no one would have had to know anything about what happened to Prompto in the labs.

Well. At least they don’t know about the labs.

He loses track of time in the shower. It’s easy, when the water never gets cold.

Eventually, he begins to feel water-logged and pruney, and he shuts it off and makes his way out. He didn’t grab his pajamas and his arm is hurting quite a lot now—he might need help putting his sling back on.

He leaves the bathroom in a towel, and Nyx is sitting in his chair with a neutral expression like absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary. He glances up as Prompto comes out of the bathroom, but looks back down after seeing him.

Prompto grabs a pair of boxes and a tee and retreats back into the bathroom.

He gets the clothes on with some difficulty. He tries to pull his sling back on by himself, but after a few failed attempts and a growing sense of frustration and pain, Prompto resolves to just ask Nyx for help.

He clears his throat after stepping out of the bathroom. Nyx looks at him, and words fail Prompto even for this simple request at Nyx’s steady gaze. Because Nyx was waiting outside of the room after Clarus finished speaking to him. Nyx was _there_. He _heard_.

Prompto flushes and tries to hide his humiliation by waving the sling around in his good arm.

Nyx is up and approaching him in a second. Prompto forces himself to stay still.

“May I?” Nyx asks, gesturing to the sling. Prompto hands it to him. “I’m going to put your arm back into it now.” The gloved hands on his skin are unpleasant, but the warning helps. And in a few painless moments, the sling is back on securely.

That over and done with, Prompto crawls into bed, and tries to block out the world through his blanket. Nyx flicks off the lights, and walks audibly back to his chair. Prompto knows, as an assassin, that Nyx does that for his benefit. In the hallways, Nyx is too quiet to track by his footsteps, like any good assassin.

Prompto curls on his good side, back towards Nyx. The sound of Nyx settling in his chair, the creaking of his leather jacket, is too loud in the quiet of the room and Prompto’s thoughts.

Time passes excruciatingly slowly as Prompto tries to will himself to sleep. But sleep doesn’t come. Whenever Prompto begins to relax, he thinks of the evening, of his panic, of his mistakes, of his shame, and the memories crush his chest and make it difficult to breathe.

Nyx probably knows he hasn’t fallen asleep, so Prompto tosses. And turns. Tosses, again. Kicks the comforter off because it’s _too warm_ in Insomnia, and then pulls them up again to hold something against his chest, to alleviate the feeling of his mistakes weighing down on him.

The more time passes, the further sleep gets from him and the worse his own anxiety gets. He sits up, kicks off the covers with a vengeance, and gets out of bed.

The small lamp by the bed flicks on. “Want the room light on?” Nyx asks, hand hovering by the lamp’s light switch, as if waiting for a sign he should turn it back off.

Prompto wonders, again, how much Nyx heard. This isn’t atypical behavior for him, respectful and distance, but Prompto can’t help feeling like he’s treading around him carefully. Like he might break. Prompto hates it and he doesn’t—for a country that doesn’t have MTs, they certainly try to train all expression of emotion out of their soldiers. “Yeah, sure.”  

With the lights on and his hopes for sleep abandoned, Prompto searches for something else to do in his room. He has a bookshelf, filled with various Lucian classics, but just perusing through the titles wanes his interests and makes him feel tired. With this sort of night in Gralea, Prompto would clean his guns, but all of his weapons were taken from him.

There’s a TV. He turns it on. The first show is too loud and obnoxious, so he changes it. The second show is some commercial, so he changes it. And the third, fourth, and fifth, until he shuts the TV off entirely in frustration.

He lies back down in bed, on top of the covers.

Not having any interest in doing anything is so much worse with an audience. Prompto glances at Nyx from his position on the bed.

Nyx is staring back at him, and their gazes meet. Prompto looks away.

This time, Nyx clears his throat, and asks in Gralean, “Are you alright, Baron Argentum?”

Prompto doesn’t want to be asked that. Or he does. He doesn’t even know what he wants right now. Anything other than this.

But hearing the Gralean is a mercy on his ears. And Nyx’s voice is so much better than those on the TV.

“How much did you hear?” Prompto asks instead, also in his mother tongue. “And _please_ call me Prompto. At least in here.”

There’s a moment where Prompto can practically hear Nyx weighing his response. “All of it. I was there a minute after Lord Amicitia.”

So those walls weren’t soundproof. Damn. “Great,” Prompto says, misery and sarcasm creating a new, unique flavor. “Just great.” He turns over onto his stomach and shoves his face into the pillow. He holds his breath for a few moments until need to breathe overcomes the humiliation, and turns his face to the side.

The silence is oppressive. Prompto can never get used to another person always being in his space. At least, not with a person who he doesn’t know and is so well-trained he acts robotic. That makes it all the more surprising when Nyx says abruptly, “I’m not supposed to ask you how you are.”

He’s not? “Oh.”

More silence, but now with a strange air of expectancy, until Nyx sighs. “I meant… I’m not supposed to ask how you are, but I’m going to anyway. How are you doing?”

Prompto doesn’t know how to answer that question. Instead he asks, “Why aren’t you supposed to ask how I’m doing?”

Nyx doesn’t shift around, like Prompto would. Instead he says, a bit carefully, “My job isn’t to notice any moments of… vulnerability the people I work for might have.”

“You don’t work for me,” Prompto says immediately. “And I’m not an aristocrat. Or, wasn’t. Until tonight, I guess. But I’m still not really one."

From where’s he’s still lying on the bed, Prompto can see Nyx’s face, which is carefully stoic with only tiny cracks in his composure that show his trepidation. “I don’t work for you, no,” he says. “But you’ve been considered a noble since the time you’ve got here.”

Prompto snorts in disgust. “Don’t fuck with me.”

Surprise breaks through even more of his composure. Staring at Prompto’s face, Nyx shakes his head, and says, in a much more casual and tired tone than before, “Right. Okay. I mean, just by who your soulmates are, that has put you in the general lump that we call nobility.” Prompto opens his mouth in indignant protest, but Nyx cuts him off. “As soon as we knew that Count Scientia was being stalked by _you_ , his _soulmate_ , that has affected everything single decision that has occurred regarding you since.”

“They restrained me full-body to a bed,” Prompto argues.

Nyx sighs. “That was more because of the assassin and stalking thing than anything.” After a moment’s thought, he adds, “If you hadn’t been their soulmate, and just a stalker or an assassin, you would have just been thrown into prison until they thought of something to do with you. Or you might have died being brought in—Lucis doesn’t have executions, but, well,” he gestures to himself, “we’ve been fighting a war. We had to be careful bringing you in.”

“You weren’t careful, you were just an idiot,” Prompto mutters, and then demands, “Is this supposed to make me feel better? ‘It could have been so much worse if everything was completely different’?” Honestly, Prompto might have been more comfortable with a prison. It’s the uncertainty he hates most of all.

Although, Insomnia is so much more different than he ever expected it to be. He never could have imagined just how _foreign_ he feels, and how much knowledge he actually lacks. There’s so much he’s had to lean that he never expected—like shaking hands when greeting new people, not talking about the weather. Prison might have had just as many surprises as… this whole ordeal. If they don’t execute their prisoners, and if Prompto is willing to beieve that they don’t experiment on them either, what do they do with them?

“I—no. You’re right. That’s not where I wanted to go with that,” Nyx says, pulling on one of his braids in frustration. Those braids don’t look Lucian. He said he was from Galahd, didn’t he? The northern region? They must be a Galahdian thing. “Look, I’m your primary guard because I brought you willingly and peacefully in that second time.”

A smile tugs at Prompto’s lips. “Your reward for doing well was babysitting duty.”

Nyx stares at him piercingly, and shrugs, “You said it, not me.” He lays his hands flat on his knees. “They thought I would have some capability of calming you down, like I did before. But, really, my normal job is to kill things. Or kill things that want to kill important people. This is way outside my area of expertise. So…” he struggles to find words. A bit fascinated, Prompto waits. “You don’t need to be grateful it’s not worse, that’s not what I meant. I just meant, your soulbonds instantly bump you up on the importance scale.”

Prompto blinks at him. “I’m pretty sure none of my soulmates even like me.”

“You’re wrong, but that’s besides the point,” Nyx says and presses on before Prompto can argue that. “Ever since you’ve gotten here, they’ve been treating you like a noble. You weren’t one before, so it’s like… if the two of us on the bottom of the ladder, they’re reaching out to pull you up to join them up at the top.” He pauses, and with careful lightheartedness, “And we’re also pushing you up from the bottom, and you’re still not grabbing the fucking ladder.” Nyx pauses. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

It makes Prompto smile a bit. Not a lot, but a bit. “It’s fine. It’s… familiar.” It’s how Aranea would talk to him. How Resistance fighters often spoke to each other. It’s also clear. Everyone here is trying to treat and prop Prompto up like nobility, and he hasn’t been going along with it. Hasn’t known how to go along with it. “It’s… difficult to join the life of nobility when you aren’t one. Weren’t, fine,” he says before Nyx can correct him. “It’s… also difficult when you’re a prisoner.”

Nyx says slowly, “I’ve never been a prisoner. In the Kingsglaive, we’re taught to kill ourselves before it comes to that.” He pauses.

Prompto nods. “We do that as well. We carry pills.”

“Yeah,” Nyx says, tone odd. “We found those.”

That weighs heavily in the air. They both understand what it means that they took those away from Prompto.

“It’s… worse, in Niflheim, I think. When you become a prisoner,” Prompto begins, not sure how far he’ll be able to get. “Even what you said… that is, without my soulbonds… that would be nothing compared to Niflheim.”

Nyx is still so careful. “What do they do in Niflheim?”

“I don’t know if I should—” _or even can_ “—talk about this,” Prompto worries.

“You don’t have to. Like I said, I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this,” Nyx says. “You’re nobility and I’m not. You could get me into a lot of trouble for not minding my own business.” _That’s a good weapon to have_ , Prompto thinks with no small amount of exhaustion. He’s never been one to use information against other people. He’d rather just shoot them. Using information against people was more of an Aranea thing. He crushes that thought before it can develop to refocus on Nyx. “But from what I—from what I did _not_ hear—it sounds like you’re dealing with a lot of…” Nyx struggles for the words. “… That your soulmates are having trouble finding a way to help you with.”

Prompto stares at him, blankly. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says tentatively.

Nyx narrows his eyes, thinking. “Count Scientia was trying to help you,” he says slowly. “Like how he would help the Prince, actually. But that didn’t work, because your problems are different than the Prince’s in ways we can’t predict. If we—if they—had a better idea of what happened to you, or what happened in Niflheim in general, your soulmates might have a better idea of how to help you.”

Ignis was trying to help him like he would help the Prince? Why? He was nothing like the Prince. And it does nothing for the guilt and humiliation twisting in his gut—he really _should_ have known better when Ignis took him away from the party.

“I don’t know where to start,” Prompto says, thinking of ways to avoid this conversation entirely.

“Well,” Nyx says haltingly. Prompto is gratified to see that he’s just as uncomfortable. “Let’s not do specifics. Or even about you, really. Let’s do hypotheticals. What would happen to somebody captured by the Imperial Army before the assassination?”

“Well,” Prompto says, mimicking Nyx in tone. Hypotheticals. He could do that. “That person, at best, would have been tortured and interrogated.”

Nyx stares at him in disbelief. “’At _best_ ’?”

Prompto shifts, a horrible thought coming to him. “You didn’t know anyone captured right? You said this was hypothetical—”

“No, no, that’s not what I—just, okay, I take it back, you would have found the Citadel’s treatment of you breezy even if you hadn’t been anyone’s soulmate.”

“I’m not so sure,” Prompto says, trying to regain the mood he had before. “I haven’t been doing so well with this, and this is supposed to be the best treatment.”

Nyx shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s your soulmates and the whole nobility thing throwing you off, isn’t it? I bet if you were a straight-up prisoner, you would have been more prepared to deal with it.”

Prompto mulls that over. He’d has a similar thought, but, “That’s a weird thing to say.”

“Yeah. Probably.” He looks at peace with that. “So, okay, best-case scenario for prisoners in Niflheim was torture and interrogation? What’s the _worst_ -case scenario?”

He doesn’t know if he should say. It is not something they can ever be proud of, as a country, and he doesn’t know Aranea’s plans. _But_ , Prompto thinks, _it was the Empire. We took our country back. And we must do better in the future. We_ can’t _hide this._ And with a bit of bitterness, _If Aranea wants me to follow a plan, she should have sent an ambassador_. “Experimentation. With,” he swallows past a dry mouth, “restraints. Where they do…” They can’t hide this. _They can’t hide this_. “…terrible things to you.” _Experimentation. Rape. Torture. Daemons. He has to say it_. “I don’t—” he shakes his head. He can’t say it. Nyx needs to _know—_

—but Nyx already knows, doesn’t he?

“Like the terrible things,” Nyx begins, eyes sharp and penetrating, “That I didn’t overhear earlier?”

Nyx already knows. “Yes,” and this is too much for Prompto to be sharing, not with this man who he can’t trust, but he can’t trust anyone, and—and he can’t stop himself, “and more. So much more. I can’t—I’m not ready. I can’t talk about it.”

“That’s fine. You’ve done great,” Nyx says.

“I—are you going to tell my soulmates? Or Clarus?” Even as he asks, Prompto doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be. They already know part of it. If Nyx doesn’t tell them, they’ll ask him. After a show like that, they won’t leave him alone for long.

“I report to Lord Amicitia,” Nyx says. “This would fall under the purview of my report. But my overarching order is to prevent you from getting upset.” He pauses. “Would you be more upset if I include this in my report, or if I don’t, and someone makes a mistake later on?”

It would probably be Prompto who makes the mistake. He shudders a bit, pulling his knees to his chest again. “I don’t know,” he mutters into his knees. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry over,” Nyx says. “If it helps, what you’ve said isn’t much more than what we’ve already learned.”

Prompto flinches. “I could never be a spy.”

Nyx laughs, surprised. It’s fairly pleasant. It’s been a while anyone’s laughed around Prompto. “That helps all of us sleep at night.” After a moment, after seeing Prompto isn’t going to speak, he continues, “This is really more… confirmation, of what we’ve put together. And that you’re willing to speak about it at all, which is important.”

“Why is that important?” Prompto asks, looking up.

“There are Kingsglaives, some that are my comrades, some that are retired,” Nyx says, “who never talk about what they’ve seen and done on the battlefield. They can’t. You try to ask them about it, they shut right down. The fact that you can talk about it even this much is a good sign.”

“A good sign,” Prompto repeats. “That’s nice to hear.”

They both quiet. Exhaustion pulls more firmly at Prompto’s eyes, and he even feels, somehow, moderately better. Still ashamed, but more at ease.

Nyx gets up and turns off the room light, but leaves the little lamp light on. Prompto lies back down, and closes his eyes to try to sleep.

But soon, without the conversation to distract him, fear and shame begin to tighten his throat and threaten to choke him. Curling in on himself yet again only makes him feel more painfully alone.

“Nyx,” he says sitting up, and then is at a loss of words on how to continue.

Nyx has stood up. Prepared for anything, Prompto supposes. “What is it, Prompto?”

“I—” _can’t sleep_. That’s not Nyx’s problem though. Prompto shouldn’t bother him with that. Soulmates and titles aside, he’s not a needy noble who can’t take care of himself.

But he always used to have Aranea. Or Biggs, or Wedge, or Aedes, or Tinia, or anyone else who was around at the time and needed a safe place to sleep—

“I’m sorry,” Prompto says. “It’s nothing.”

Nyx waits, still standing. “You can tell me if you need something.”

“It’s stupid,” Prompto says.

“I’m sure it’s not, but I can be the judge of that when you tell me what it is.”

“You…” Nyx’s job isn’t to notice anything that shows that he’s human, remember that. “You remember when you captured me the second time?”

“I convinced you to come back for medical treatment, but yes.”

“Yeah, that. Remember when… um, when we were talking, and you were—that is, I was—” Prompto can’t finish. He can’t ask this stranger for a hug, what the hell is he thinking?

“When I was convincing you,” Nyx says, connecting the dots himself. “And I was holding you?”

Prompto flinches. “I’m sorry, it’s stupid—”

“It’s not stupid,” Nyx states immediately. “I’m just a little surprised. I thought you didn’t like being touched.”

“Fuck,” Prompto mutters. “No, I don’t like being fucking touched when I’m restrained.”

“Okay,” Nyx says, words measured. “So, today, with Ignis…” He trails off.

Prompto’s face burns in humiliation. “That’s wasn’t—it didn’t—I can’t explain that, right now. It’s not the same thing.”

Nyx stares at him. “Okay. What do you want me to do?” Prompto wants to be able to pretend for a little while that he’s not as alone as he feels. He doesn’t know what he wants from Nyx. Nyx tries, saving him from himself, “Do you want me to hold you?”

That—that sounds better than what Prompto was going to ask for, if he could have gotten the words out. “I’m sorry, that’s too much to ask—”

“Sure,” Nyx says firmly, cutting Prompto off. He gratefully lets his mouth click close and stops talking. “Give me a minute.”

Prompto waits, tense and questioning himself, as Nyx takes off his jacket and boots and sets them by the chair. Then he approaches the bed, kneels on the edge, and rearranges the pillows. “Come over here,” he says, making it so that he’s propped up against the headboard of the bed. Leaning back and making himself comfortable against it, he pulls a blanket on top of his lap. Prompto can see where he’s going with this. “Lay on your back or your good side.”

Prompto scooches over, and tentatively begins to lie on his side. “Are you sure? This is—this is more than I should ask—”

“Come over here and put your head on my lap already.”

Prompto does. The blanket keeps his face from the leather of Nyx’s uniform. He curls up closer, thinking of Aranea, feeling comforted, and trying not to.

“Can I touch your head?” Nyx asks from above him. Prompto nods, and a gloved hand touches his scalp, and he flinches. “Sorry,” Nyx says at the same time Prompto says, “Can you take off the gloves?”

Nyx does and hesitates. Prompto says into his legs, “That should be fine.” Nyx’s gloveless hand begins to stroke his hair. Prompto swallows. “Can you… can you say something in Gralean?”

Nyx’s hand pauses. “Sure,” he says, and begins to murmur softly some silly tale about a sea witch and a mermaid.

Prompto has fallen asleep just like this so many times, with his head on Aranea’s lap and her hand threading gently through his hair. The sheets are too soft, the mattress too nice, the room too fresh, the air too dry, and the thought of Aranea a bit too painful, but he focuses on Nyx’s soft, accented Gralean and the calloused fingers stroking through his hair, and he finally, mercifully, falls asleep.

_(Art by the lovely[kickingshoes](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, a link to the original post is [here](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/163908366077/two-of-my-favorite-scenes-so-far-from-seladorie))_

…

The hallway is bright and airy, with a pleasant thrum of noise as people go about their business. No one gives Prompto a second glance, as he walks through with Nyx. No one else seems to be having any problems viewing Prompto as one of them.

It’s been a few days since the disastrous party, and aside from having to get used to people addressing him as ‘Baron Argentum’ all the time, nothing else has happened. Prompto doesn’t know what Clarus did to make his absence go unquestioned, but he’s thankful for it. But it’s one more thing to wonder about.

No one’s said anything about what happened with Ignis. Gladio’s seen him everyday for hours for his physical therapy, and Prompto’s unsure if he even _knows_.

But he has to, right? Even if Ignis wouldn’t tell him, Clarus is his _father_. Of course he would. They probably even made it a whole meeting, talking about how fucked up their last soulmate is. Prompto can’t even get comforted right.

Gladio’s kept the conversations light. He brought over that book. He brought over even more books, more than Prompto’s ever had available to him at once before, because Gladio looked at the bookshelf that was in his room, and said, “ _That’s_ what they gave you to read?” and shortly returned with enough books to keep Prompto pretty happily occupied.

They’ve kept the conversations to books. And it’s actually pretty nice, Prompto likes the books and likes talking about them, but he’s going to go a little bit crazier without knowing what his soulmates could possibly be thinking about him now.

He hasn’t seen Ignis. Prompto needs to apologize, but in some ways, this is fortunate. He has no idea how to even articulate what he’s sorry for because how do you apologize for your entire existence and his soulmates misfortunate of being stuck with him, of all people?

They move further away from the activity in the busier halls, and make their way down to the royal suites. Prompto’s been here before, when he tracked down Ignis. This is where he saw the glaive standing guard, and ducked outside to observe from the trees.

Fuck, that had been a stupid plan. He should have _waited_. Prompto tries to imagine how his first meeting with his soulmates would have played out, if he hadn’t been thinking like an assassin tracking a target. If he hadn’t leapt into action and tracked down his soulmate at the first sign of is location, and actually set up a meeting.

By the Six, he can’t even imagine that. So much has happened that they can never go back on.

They get to a suite that Prompto hasn’t seen before, and Nyx knocks. Another glaive opens the door, nods to them, and steps aside.

Nervously, Prompto steps in, Nyx following behind him. The door shuts.

“Hey,” the Prince says, smiling a bit.

Prompto tries to smile in response and isn’t sure how well he manages it. “Hi, uh, Your Highness.”

“Oh, uh, you can just call me Noctis,” he says. “At least when we’re in private. If you called me that when we’re in public, someone might figure out you’re my soulmate and that would put you in a lot more danger.”

“Oh,” Prompto says, standing awkwardly in the room. Nyx is standing in front of the door, staring straight ahead as all of the guards and glaives do, and the other one is standing by the windows. Why by the windows? In case of an attack? That’s… reasonable, actually. Given how easy it was for Prompto to break into the Citadel.

Honestly, it would be safest if Noctis had a room without windows, period. Prompto can think of ways around a window guard. As he thinks of it, he reminds himself that most people need sunlight to live and be happy. Prompto doesn’t really know what that’s like. Gralea gets very little sunlight, and large buildings that prioritize technological efficiency rather than living conditions for its citizens allow little light to get through anyway.

Plus, Prompto suspects that he has enough daemon in him to make him sensitive to too much sunlight. Not enough to be obvious when he is in the sun for hours, but he burns and gets headachey easily. More tellingly, Prompto never really _misses_ the sun, like Tinia and other Resistance members who had never been laboratory specimens.

Though right now, Prompto would rather jump out of the windows than be here in this situation. He has no idea what to say.

“So, um…” Noctis says. “We finally get to really meet?” It’s not a question, but the pitch rises as if it were.

Prompto stares, trying to reconcile this guy who’s acting just as awkward as Prompto feels with the Prince who helped him a few days before. What _happened_?

“Do you, uh, is there anything you want to do?” Noctis asks.

Prompto’s eyes flick around the room. In _here_? What is there even to do?

“Uh, do you like video games?” Noctis tries.

Prompto stares at him. When would he ever had had the chance to play video games? “I’ve never played them.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, that would… make sense.” Noctis shifts on his feet. “Wanna try playing one? I have a set up here.”

Anything was better than standing here trying to find anything to say to his soulmate. “Yeah, sure.”

“Here, have a seat,” Noctis says as he waves to the couch. Prompto tentatively sits down on the end of the couch. The couch is surprisingly soft, just like every other piece of furniture in the Citadel. It’s _weird_ —Prompto feels vulnerable when he sinks so far into the cushions. As Noctis plugs some wires in and gets the game set up, Prompto wriggles around on the couch, trying to find a position that makes him feel less like the couch is trying to consume him.

He finds one, leaning against the arm of the couch, with one of his legs curled up next to him and the other touching the floor.

Noctis turns around, hands Prompto a game controller with a bright, “Here,” and then settles on the other side of the couch.

“So, you like shooting things, right?” Noctis asks.

Prompto doesn’t know what that question has to do with anything. “Uh… yeah?”

“Cool, you might like this game then. It’s a shooter.” At Prompto’s expression, he clarifies, “It’s a game about shooting things.”

“Oh,” Prompto says, and yeah, okay, maybe this won’t be terrible. How difficult could a shooting game be for an assassin?

The game starts. Noctis flips through some screens more quickly than Prompto can read them, and suddenly they’re in some kind of building. “You use that stick on the left to move and the stick on the right to look around,” he explains. “The button on the top right fires your gun, and the pad on the left cycles through different weapons. We’re fighting the NPCs. Non-playable characters,” he clarifies.

“What about ammo?”

“You have to find it around the game’s location, but it reloads itself pretty quickly if you have it,” Noctis says, leaning against the arm on the other side of the chair. He stretches his legs on into the middle of the couch. Prompto wishes he could feel that relaxed, and wills himself to mimic the Prince’s laidback attitude.

The instructions are easy enough to understand, and Noctis makes the game look easy. They’re on the same team, thankfully, but that makes it all the more embarrassing when Prompto’s character is killed by an NPC.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Noctis asks.

“I can’t aim!” Prompto says, trying to get an enemy character and not being able to find a middle ground between left and right.

“Oh my gods,” Noctis says, after Prompto’s died a few times. “I thought you were good at shooting things.”

Prompto scowls at him, his character shooting wildly to not get mauled to death by a monster. “This is _nothing like_ shooting a gun!”

Noctis laughs, and Prompto swivels the camera and throws a grenade at Noctis’ character. Fortunately, unlike guns, grenades take much less nuance to aim even in a game.

The black screen of death fills Noctis’ part of the screen. He gapes. “You’re not supposed to kill your allies!”

“You’re not supposed to laugh at them either!”

“Okay, fine,” Noctis says, going back into the main menu. With some rapid changes, he announces, “Forget the NPCs. It’s one on one. You and me. Let’s do this.”

 _Shit_ , Prompto thinks. He says, with a bit of a smile, “You’re on.”

…

Some hours pass and Prompto doesn’t even notice, sucked into the game as he is. It’s fun! He’s having fun! With one of his soulmates!

It feels good.

Noctis calls their game to a stop when he has to get ready for some dinner, shutting off the console.

“It’s just a dinner with my father and some Council members,” Noctis says, as they get up. “And with Gladio and, uh, Iggy.” That’s perfectly sensible, but the distance Prompto has put between himself and his humiliation about that night comes roaring back. “Because, you know, they’ll be my Council members someday.”

“Yeah, of course,” Prompto says. “I’ll just, uh, go.” He adds a bit unsure, “Um, it was fun hanging out.”

Noctis gives a tiny smile. “It was a pleasure to spend time with you this afternoon, and I look forward to doing so in the future.” Prompto stares at him. A grimace crosses Noctis’ face. “No, I mean—sorry, that was—autopilot. Sorry. Yeah, this was fun. We should do it again sometime.”

Neither of them move, and silence hangs like a heavy blanket. “Well, um,” Prompto says. “Bye.” He flees as much as he can without seeming like he’s fleeing, and with Nyx following close behind.

He makes way back to his room, since that’s pretty much where he stays when he’s not seeing his soulmates. But Nyx lightly clears his throat, “Actually, Lord Amicitia requested that we go meet him.”

Prompto stops in his tracks. “Oh. Okay,” and he waits for Nyx to take the lead.

They go to a different hallway. Still looks like all the other hallways, but definitely different, as there were many more official, terrifying looking men and women walking around. Prompto tries not to let them intimidate him. _I am an assassin. My job was to kill people like you._ He repeats to himself until he feels a bit better. _They should be scared of me_. Wait, that would probably be worse for him. _Never mind_.

They get to a grand oak door on which Nyx knocks.

“Come in,” calls a muffled voice that definitely belongs to Clarus.

Clarus is sitting at his desk, typing something on a laptop. The bookshelves are filled with binders and texts with old binding, and they seemed alphabetized. There some scattered papers on his desk, but otherwise, Clarus’ office is distressingly neat. Prompto resists the urge to try to make something organized out of the mess he calls hair. “Ah, Prompto,” Clarus says, snapping his laptop shut. “Good to see you. Please, sit. I wanted to have a conversation with you. Would you like some tea?” A bit unsure, Prompto nods, and Clarus gets up and pours him a cup from an electric water boiler he hadn’t notice was in the office. Prompto doesn’t know what kind of tea it is by looking at it, but when he takes a sip, he recognizes the taste of Ignis’ favorite, the gunpowder green tea.

Oh, so Ignis told him about that. Prompto corrects himself—of _course_ Ignis told him about that. They’re obviously all sharing information.

Clarus sits back down and his eyes flicker over to Nyx. “Would you like Glaive Ulric to stay or leave while we talk?”

Prompto tries to hide his tension at the decision. Clarus gives no indication which is the right answer, so he says, “Uh, stay. If that’s okay.”

Clarus nods, waving a hand to Nyx, who settles somewhere by the door. “Prompto,” he says, some warmth coloring his tone. Prompto resists the urge to squirm—he doesn’t deserve his kindness. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Prompto answers immediately. Holding the warm mug gives his hands something to do, to keep them from fidgeting. His answer is too short, so he takes a sip of tea to busy his mouth.

Clarus’ gaze pierces him, and Prompto knows he’s neither buying what he’s selling nor is he willing to humor him. A slight edge of panic begins to rise up his throat. “Fine, are you? Tell me, Prompto—how do you define ‘fine’?”

Prompto stares at him blankly, unable to process or understand the question. “What?”

“Well, when I say that I’m fine,” Clarus says, a little more gentle than before. “I mean that I am of good physical and _emotional_ health.” Prompto winces at the emphasis. He doesn’t even know what that means. “I can do my regular physical activities at least, and more importantly, I am fairly content, or at least not overly distressed. From the events of our last meeting—”

“I’m sorry,” Prompto bursts. He realizes immediately that he’s _interrupted_ Clarus, and says, “I didn’t—I mean—I’m sorry again.”

Clarus stares at him for a moment. It’s hard for Prompto to remember things very well during his episodes, but he thinks Clarus stared at him like that before too. Like he’s seeing right through Prompto.

“No one is blaming you for what happened at the party,” Clarus says finally. “However, when I spoke with you at the party, you repeatedly said you were ‘fine,’ and later, it became very apparent that you were not, and had not been, ‘fine,’ as I would normally understand it. You were distressed and hiding it.”

 _Not well enough_ , Prompto thinks, mentally punching himself.

“So then I must take it that when you say you’re ‘fine,’ you mean that you’re close to a dissociative episode,” Clarus says. “Is that what you mean?”

Prompto doesn’t know how to respond to that questions, so he sidetracks with, “A _what_ episode?”

“A dissociative episode,” Clarus says slowly. “I see it in soldiers frequently.”

“What—what does that mean?”

“It means,” Clarus says, “that when the situation around you is too much for you to handle, you…” He looks up for a minute, thinking. “… _Disconnect_ from reality, your emotions, and potentially even your sense of self.” That… yeah. That sounds like Prompto. There’s a word for it? “Soldiers I’ve known have described that they feel a numbness to their emotions, like they’re watching someone else’s life.” Definitely. “Some of them lose time, or their perceptions of time seem distorted.” Oh.

Oh.

Yeah, that’s him.

“That… it’s called a dissociative episode?” Prompto asks. Clarus nods. A little unsure, he meekly asks, “And it’s normal for soldiers?” When it’s gotten really bad, Prompto can’t even recognize himself. Is that part of it? He doubts it—Lucian soldiers wouldn’t have any reason to doubt their own reflection, especially not with the haunting image of an MT mask instead of their face.

Clarus smiles a bit sadly. “It’s certainly common. Trauma can do that to anybody. It’s why we have mental health services for our personnel.”

Prompto doesn’t even know what ‘mental health services’ is supposed to mean. “I… didn’t know there was a word for it.”

“No, I imagine the Empire didn’t encourage mental wellness and stability,” Clarus says, and those words, like ‘mental health services,’ confound Prompto further. “So you see why I’m a little suspicious of your ‘fine’?”

Oh, right, that’s what they were talking about. “But I am fine.”

“So you’re not about to have a dissociative episode?” Clarus asks, steepling his fingers.

Prompto’s pretty sure he isn’t. “No,” he says. He hesitates. “And I am fine. I…” Why should he tell Clarus this? Would it make him trust him? Stop questioning him? “… was just hanging out with Noctis. His Highness,” he corrects, but Clarus has a small smile on, so it was probably okay. “And it was fine. Fun.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Clarus says, smiling more broadly now. Prompto squirms a bit in his seat, embarrassed and not sure why. The smile drops a little bit. “I would prefer it that, in the future, you respond to questions about your well-being with words other than ‘fine.’”

That’s… annoying, but easy enough. “Okay. Uh, yes, sir.”

“Clarus is fine,” he says. “Please. I know you don’t really trust any of us, and none of us have earned the honor of being considered your family, but I would like it if you called me Clarus.”

Prompto can’t believe he said that with a straight face. Honor? To be considered a part of _Prompto’s_ family? He can’t believe this guy. “Okay,” he says, and a bit awkwardly adds, “Clarus,” but he still hesitates and Clarus notices.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Uh,” Prompto says, sipping his tea while gathering his thoughts. “It’s just that… Noctis said that I should only call him by his name in private, because otherwise people will realize that we’re soulmates. Won’t people get suspicious if I call you by your first name?”

“Oh,” Clarus says, and chuckles. Prompto doesn’t see what’s so funny—it’s a genuine concern. “No one’s going to think you’re my soulmate,” he says, and _now_ Prompto see what’s so funny and he really doesn’t think it’s funny. He blushes instead. “There are lots of reasons why you might call me by my first name. I, along with Reggie—” and it takes Prompto a second to remember _he means the King_ “—sponsored your barony, so while our level of familiarity is unknown to others, being on a first-name basis is easily reasonable.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. “Okay. Cool.”

There’s that staring again. “Now, my reason for requesting that you meet with me is that we _do_ need to discuss the events of the party.”

He seems to be waiting for a response. “Okay,” Prompto says.

When it’s clear Prompto has no intention of saying any more, Clarus starts with, “I want to be clear about something—what happened at the party was not your fault.” That’s… not what Prompto was expecting to hear. “You’re not to blame for expecting to be hurt when you’ve been hurt so much before. You’re also not to blame for reacting in a way that you thought would make the situation easier.” He pauses, peering at him closely. “Do you understand?”

Prompto doesn’t, and his words are mixed up in his throat, and he can’t untangle them. It _was_ his fault. He should have known better, been more patient, remembered that you never touch the people in charge unless they order you to. Clarus doesn’t save him from responding, the moments dragging by as he waits for Prompto to say anything. Prompto’s current inability to even put words together make it worse, and worse still when he remembers that Nyx is standing back by the door. A bit shakily, he drinks some of his tea.

“Um,” he says. “I think so?”

Clarus sighs and Prompto’s chest tightens. He doesn’t believe him. “Do you think it’s your fault?”

Prompto does, but clearly shouldn’t say that. He says, “No,” but even he’s not convinced, and Clarus certainly isn’t.

“Why do you think it’s your fault?” Clarus asks gently.

Because it is. He should have known better. Been better.

He drinks some more of his tea.

Clarus sighs again. “Ordinarily, we would send you to speak to a counselor, who can help you work through your trauma over time. However, we don’t have that option for a variety of reasons, least of all being I’m absolutely certain that you would ever open up to a Lucian therapist.” _Well, he’s right about that, at least,_ Prompto thinks _._ “I am not a trained therapist. Ideally, I wouldn’t be the one talking to you about this. But we can’t leave this unaddressed, and even though you don’t trust me now, I hope you will someday in the future.”

Drat. Prompto’s out of tea to busy himself with when he doesn’t want to talk.

“If you don’t want to tell me _why_ you’re blaming yourself, that’s fine. But I want to say again that _it was not your fault_ ,” Clarus says firmly. Prompto shifts around, holding his empty mug to keep his hands from fidgeting.

But it was his fault. He shouldn’t have let himself get so panicked. He shouldn’t have reached for Ignis’ pants. He shouldn’t have let Ignis lead him away from the party in the first place. He should have just dealt with his own Six-damned feelings and smiled through the party.

Prompto says nothing. It was his fault, and nothing Clarus says could change that, but he knows better than to say that out loud.

“Do you blame Ignis?” Clarus asks.

“No!” Prompto says immediately, reflexively, but even as he says it, he realizes that it’s not… _completely_ true. What happened at the party was Prompto’s fault, but a rather insidious bitterness lined with a touch of anger swells up at the memory of Ignis refusing to let him out of the restraints, and being so blind as to touch him.

The feeling takes him by surprise. Prompto wasn’t aware that he’s holding a grudge.

Prompto has an expressive face, and Clarus is watching him attentively. “Ignis is extremely apologetic for the distress he unwittingly caused you,” Clarus says. “If you are willing, I would like to arrange a meeting between you and Ignis so the two of you can talk.”

“Talk,” Prompto repeats. He’s done so much talking since he’s been a prisoner. He’s pretty sick of it. And what does that even mean? How can he and Ignis recover from what happened? Prompto _ruined_ everything.

Clarus clears his throat. “So are you amenable?”

“What? Oh,” Prompto looks down into his empty mug. He absolutely does not want to do this. And he recalls, suddenly, what Nyx said during their conversation those few days ago. “No?”

There’s a pause, and Prompto immediately curses his brief moment of courage. That was a _stupid_ boundary to push—what does it matter if they make him talk to Ignis? He’s better prepared now. He can get through it. He opens his mouth to take it back, but Clarus cuts him off. “That’s fine. May I ask why you don’t wish to speak to Ignis?”

Prompto swallows his words, and tries to summon those that can answer the question. Tries to be bold again. “You just want me to meet with Ignis to make nice with him,” and it comes out more accusatory than he wants but just as accusatory as he means. “That’s—that would be the entire point. For us to—to talk about our feelings and forgive each other and heal and get better. But I don’t want that.”

Finally, Clarus seems perplexed, and Prompto feels as if he has some control over this conversation. “You don’t?”

“You said that you’re going to keep your word, and let me go at the end of the month,” Prompto says, desperately hoping this won’t turn on him. “I don’t want to talk about what’s—” Prompto takes a breath before continue “—what’s happened to me. I don’t want to talk about my feelings. And,” and this is hard to admit, “I’m not going to get better. No, I’m not,” he insists, when Clarus opens his mouth to protest. “I’m not getting better in a month. A conversation with some guy I don’t know, even if he is one of my soulmates, isn’t going to make me better.” There’s a silence, where Clarus doesn’t say anything. Prompto hesitates, and then goes for one more thing because he might as well if this is already going to end badly, “And it’s insulting that everyone here thinks that they can solve my problems if I just tell them more and more about me, even though I don’t trust them.”

Clarus’ expression is… well, surprised, to say the least. The mug still held tightly in Prompto’s hands begins to visibly tremble so he lowers it to rest on his lap. He resists the urge to look back at Nyx—he doesn’t know how Clarus is going to react, now, and Nyx might be able to give him some kind of hint.

Or warning.

“That is,” Clarus says, voice deep and neutral, “a fair point. That is unreasonable to expect of you. I apologize.”

Wow. That went better than expected.

“Well, that is all I wanted to discuss with you. Thank you for meeting with me, Prompto,” Clarus says. “And thank you for your honesty. That was very helpful.” _Oh, that’s… good?_ Prompto thinks. “We have received word from Gralea that they are sending an ambassador, who should arrive in a week barring no extenuating circumstances.” Prompto’s heart flips or explodes or stops from happiness. He’s not sure which. Maybe all three at once. “When the ambassador is here, we’ll coordinate with them about your travel arrangements for when the month for your recovery is up.”

“Do you,” Prompto says, mouth dry. “Do you know who it is?”

Clarus’ eyes soften. “I’m afraid no name was provided, presumably for security purposes.” Aranea’s afraid of assassins. Well, she would be—an assassin put her on the throne, after all. “If we find out before the ambassador arrives, we’ll let you know.”

Prompto nods, a bit too hopeful and overwhelmed with success to speak.

Clarus dismisses them, and Prompto walks back to his room in a bit of a haze.

 _Aranea didn’t forget me,_ he thinks. _She’s sending help_. Who would it be though? No one immediately came to mind as an appropriate ambassador. Could that have been reason for the delay? She was trying to find someone to be the ambassador in the first place? It’s only been a few months since the death of the Emperor, that search could have taken time, along with everything else.

For the first time in weeks, Prompto feels like things are going to be okay. He said no, and it was fine. An ambassador is coming. He doesn’t need to keep talking about his feelings.

It feels too early to say, and Prompto’s certain he’s jinxed himself as soon as he thinks it, but he’s beginning to feel that everything might turn out okay.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can’t know this from this chapter, because prompto doesn’t notice this and he can’t read minds, but when noctis says “So, you like shooting things, right?” the glaives in the room mentally resign themselves to making sure Noctis doesn’t get himself shot


	8. The Laboratories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis reads reports he wishes he didn't have to. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Nyx and Prompto have a good time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE MIND THE TAGS FOR WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER.
> 
> The dark themes that have been discussed and implied throughout this fic are much more directly addressed in this chapter. THERE IS NOTHING GRAPHIC, but discussions of rape, medical rape, unethical experimentation and other violations, all of which happen to children, are directly addressed and discussed between characters. NOTHING GRAPHIC HAPPENS.

Assa Mendacium, referred to as Agent LII in the reports, no longer works for the Citadel as an undercover operative. In fact, she no longer lives in Insomnia at all, and the latest update to her address three months ago places her in the outskirts of the Vesperpool in Cleigne. The notes on her file states that she works as a farmer of a variety of greens and fruit, and regularly donates entire harvests to the nearby orphanage and hospital. She has provided emergency medical services to various people in her location but refuses any steady positions for such a service, as well as any payment.

Most significantly, she also refuses all offers by the Insomnian government for any relocation of her choice, and has never cashed any of the continuous Operative Benefits checks she is entitled to.

Her medical expertise is easily explained by her career prior to her work in the Citadel, and her role as an undercover operative. Prior to her service in Lucis’ spy network, she was gainfully employed at the major Insomnian hospital. She was not recruited—she volunteered to work as a spy.

On the surface, Mendacium was not their typical recruit for an operative. She had a stable and vital job. She was already thirty-five at the time, and most of their operatives were young and fighting-fit. They had been unsuccessful up to that point of infiltrating the higher ranks of the Niflheim government without operatives who could work their way up from scratch. It was a decades-long process, and there were sectors of the Niflheim government that they had not been able to infiltrate as far as they needed to.

Like the laboratories. Lucian operatives had gotten into the laboratories as personal assistants to executives, handling their messages ( _which were kept vague and coded, and not even assistants were given the codes_ ) and as maintenance workers ( _who disposed of large amounts of the expected technological waste, but more worryingly, biological waste that was not the natural sort_ ).

They had never gotten anyone into the proper laboratory rooms, where Niflheim scientists create their MagiTek soldiers and daemonic servants.

Until Mendacium.

She was born to Niflheim parents, much like the rest of their operatives. Unlike any of them, her mother claimed to have escaped from a laboratory. Her mother had been one voice among a very few of the refugees from Niflheim who had made such a claim. Who reported that their MagiTek soldiers were humans, experimented on until they were unrecognizable. That, among the many atrocities committed by Niflheim, they injected daemon blood into infants to make these enhanced, and reportedly inhuman, soldiers.

These claims weren’t taken seriously. Ignis makes a note that this refusal to listen is still one of Lucis’ greatest failures. 

Mendacium approached their intelligence agency and offered to go to Niflheim, to acquire a position in a laboratory working as a nurse, and send evidence that would prove the truth of her mother’s words. She was already a nurse—she had the skills and qualifications. She was fluent in Gralean—her parents never learned Lucian, and her household growing up was solely in Gralean. Mendacium had no partner, no children, no one who would miss her if she left. Her father had died a few years before, and her mother recently, for unknown causes, but which Mendacium claimed were due to the experiments conducted on her mother when she was a laboratory specimen.

And she would prove it. She was going to prove it, whether they sanctioned it or not. Mendacium was going to go to Niflheim either way, and she gave Lucis the option to benefit from her plan.

So, of course, Lucis agreed.

As promised, Mendacium traveled to Gralea, and with a clever and extremely faked background, secured a job at a lab in Succarpe. She worked there for five years. During that period of time she sent them photographs of the experiments they were running there, which focused exclusively on daemons. Alarming, but not the information Mendacium wanted to send.

Somehow, she gained enough credibility and reputation to advance to a position in Zegnautus Keep itself. After two years in minor laboratories in the Keep, which provided useful information, but still not what she was seeking, she was promoted as an aide to Verstael Besithia himself.

When reporting that promotion, Ignis finds with some amusement and sadness that surviving as an employee to the Empire required finesse and vicious backstabbing. A task Mendacium found easy; she was of the mind that all those who willingly aided the Empire deserved nothing less than death. Advancing through the ranks, Mendacium wrote, required an intricate network of debts, blackmail, and sexual favours. None of these were mutually exclusive.

The information she sent was meticulously detailed, photographs and notes taken with an indifference that would require an immediate mental health evaluation upon return.

But Mendacium never returned to Insomnia. She sent in the reports, escaped from Niflheim, and settled on a farm. Ignis spreads out the photograph she took, of specimens floating tanks—daemons, what looks like daemons, and those that are identifiable human. Or used to be human.

It doesn’t end there. There are pictures of the operating rooms, with sterile, metal tables. An array of glinting, terrifying medical tools lie in neat, accessible order on a movable shelf. Most of the photographs of the operating rooms do not take place during any operations. Mendacium wrote extensively of what occurred in those rooms, but evidently, she grew frustrated with the lack of hard evidence that she initially set out to obtain. Or perhaps she believed that Lucian officials would have to see to believe.

She wasn’t wrong, after all.

After a year as Besithia’s personal assistant, and of photographs of locations, of empty and medically clean settings that could only ominously imply their capacity for suffering, Mendacium found a way to provide photographs mid-operations.

In her report, she alluded to a contact in the slums of Niflheim who assisted her with what she called a button camera. A camera that was so tiny, it could replace a button on her uniform.

It worked. The photographs she sent to their intelligence department were the evidence she needed to validate her mother’s claims, and much more than the Citadel ever knew to fear.

Images of children on the operating tables, black viscous fluid injected into them. Children cut open to replace or add in daemonic organs, Mendacium explained, to see if it made them better soldiers. Their bodies violated medically, in ways Lucis hadn’t thought anyone capable of. That Mendacium’s mother said she had been.

It’s horrific, but not what Ignis is looking for. He searches through Mendacium’s reports, scouring for anything she might have seen or noticed about sexual assault and rape of these children.

It takes him some time. Ignis searches through the wrong sections at first, of the time she spent observing and interacting with the guards. He suspects that any sexual assault that occurred likely happened at the hands of the guards, when the children were not being under observation for experiments and medical procedures. But if the guards sexually assaulted the children, Mendacium did not notice or report it.

When he turns to one of her earlier explanations of the treatments and operations Besithia conducted, he finds what he’s looking for, and genuinely wishes reading this report was not a necessity. As though the violations of bodily autonomy of conducting surgeries and injections on these children with daemon organs and blood were not enough to satisfy whatever sick brain hatched that particular plan, Mendacium defines several procedures as medical rape.

She explained that the children often experienced negative side effects from the treatments of daemon blood, to no one’s surprise, and either would require non-oral treatment for those symptoms. They sometimes also had treatments to try that could not be taken orally or intravenously. For these treatments, they would use such methods like suppositories.

The writing of these reports maintains this detached language throughout, even during the most horrific parts.

It was not a surprise to Lucis that Mendacium never returned. Notes written on her reports of their suspicions that she would defect or self-destruct before completing her mission. Plans for damage control were already being made when these reports were sent.

No wonder Mendacium never returned and refuses all government money. Ignis doesn’t know if he would be able to live with himself if it had been him.

He hopes that Mendacium feels vindicated now. That she found whatever peace she was seeking for her mother. It is the very least that anyone could hope at all.

There’s some additional notes, about invasive procedures on children for reasons that are flimsy at best, with doctors and senior nurses who do not require others to be present. Here, Mendacium is not shy about her speculations.

There is little else relevant to what Ignis is seeking in her reports. He flips to the end of the binder. Before she escaped from Niflheim, she succeeded to manipulating several of the doctors and nurses into turning against each other, which in Zegnautus Keep, resulted in several poisonings, a few individuals locked into cages with daemons to the predictable ends, and some individuals executed by the Empire.

For a spy, it’s a job well done. Before Mendacium’s reports, they just didn’t take Niflheim refugees seriously about the atrocities committed in Niflheim against its own citizenry. They had no idea what was ailing the few ( _the very, very few—if so few were ever able to escape from those labs, what does that mean for Prompto?_ ) who escaped from laboratories? How could they address trauma of which they couldn’t even comprehend the magnitude?

How could they fight MagiTek soldiers without understanding fully the cruelty that went into their creation and design? How could they target the Niflheim laboratories themselves without knowing from the inside how those teams operated?

Mendacium exposed the monstrosity of the people they are fighting, and destroyed as much as she could without discovery as she left. Many of the people she noted in particular for their inhumanity were among those who died in her wake.  

Except for Verstael Besithia. Her last report is less a report, and a deluge of wrath and frustration that he escaped before she could ensure his end.

(Ignis heard he died during the takeover of the Empire by the Resistance. He wonders if Mendacium knows. He makes a note on his calendar to do so. She deserves to know that, if she doesn’t already.)

Ignis sighs, rubs his temples to alleviate his headache, and slams the binder shut with far more force than he should. It clatters to the floor, taking his cup of Ebony, and he dives to save the binder from landing in the coffee.

He throws it onto his bed, which misses and lands on the floor, to get it away from him and the mess. Because all of this is one, giant, irreversible mess.

No, he can’t think that way. This is salvageable. It must be. Ignis will make it so.

At least he found what he was looking for. Evidence for the context in which Prompto likely was assaulted. The details, of course, are unknown unless Prompto chooses to reveal them, if he ever does. But this provides the most likely situations in which the rape Prompto has alluded to occurred.

The two specific scenarios Mendacium described do seem most probable, though. Given Prompto’s particular terror towards being restrained, and his lingering distress around being alone with Ignis, it seems likely.

Ignis sighs and takes off his glasses, leaning onto the desk in front of him. He closes his eyes and rubs his eyes. This information, while illuminating, provides no immediate insight on how to proceed in this situation that has developed between himself and Prompto.  
And now he needs to clean up the coffee on the floor.

He sets about finding a cloth and some soap, all the while trying to rack his brain for how to implement this knowledge. Ignis kneels down, sopping up the spilled liquid, and then spraying the tile afterwards and drying it.

There’s a brief knock, in the abrupt and stuttered force that Noctis prefers. Ignis calls, “Come in,” and the door opens.

“Iggy?” Noctis calls out, confused.

He stands up from the floor, the mess cleaned up now. “Here. Just cleaning a spill.”

“Oh,” says Noct, taking in the mess of Iggy’s desk and the binder on the floor. “Are you doing alright?”

Ordinarily, Ignis would say that he’s fine and move along the conversation. Since the debacle at the entitlement party, however, both Noctis and Gladio have been particularly keen on checking on Ignis’ emotional well-being. Their concern is sweet, and the fact that they both are checking in is rather enough; Ignis has already been attending therapy sessions on Clarus’ strong recommendation, to discuss any lingering trauma he might feel after being stalked and assaulted.

Not that any of that is nearly at all comparable to what Prompto must be feeling—

No. _Stop_ , Ignis tells himself. They’re not comparable. The therapist said several times that being hurt and shaken after his experiences did not minimize the hurt Prompto is going through. He can’t compare them. Doing so is a messy slide of diminishing his own self and his feelings.

Ignis can’t deny that he is hurt and shaken. More so by the stalking than the assault—fearing for his life and being restricted to his quarters for almost a week left a lingering impact of slight paranoia and fear.

As for the assault, the action of undoing his pants itself meant very little to Ignis at all. It was a surprise, to be sure, but as he said to Clarus, he felt neither violated or assaulted. No, the cause of his distress over that matter were due to Prompto’s reason for his assault; that others have hurt him in such a way that he now expects it, and that he believes Ignis would be counted among them.

He is horrified, with a modicum of self-disgust that his therapist had him discussed _endlessly_. “It has very little to do with you,” his therapist said. “It doesn’t reflect on you as a person. It was the situation that triggered Prompto into a dissociative episode, and you couldn’t have known that it would.”

“Is that something that would matter to Prompto?” Ignis asked. “After all, we can’t expect him to inform us of all of his traumas the minute we brought him through the door.”

“How Prompto feels is completely up to Prompto,” she said. “And well within his right to feel and react as he will. As it is solely up to you to decide how you feel and will act from this point on. Ultimately, you can only be responsible for yourself.”

Now, he mostly feels angry at those who hurt Prompto so badly. His therapist said that this was normal and reasonable.

Which leaves him here, knowing so much more than Ignis really would have ever wanted to know.

“I’m not alright,” Ignis says. “I found the reports I needed.”

Noctis raises an impatient eyebrow. “And?”

“I can put together probable situations in which Prompto has endured the trauma he’s hinted about in his past, and it is much worse than we ever could have predicted,” Ignis says, doing his best to keep his usual composure. But it falls away as he continues, remembering that with an audience only of Noctis, he can allow his exhaustion to slip through. “And of course, we will not know anything for certain unless Prompto chooses to reveal them, which we can assume that he will not.”

Noct sighs. “They’re that bad, huh? I mean, I’ve read some of the reports we get in from operatives, but Mendacium’s mission was before my time.”

Mendacium’s mission ended seven years ago, when Noctis was twelve. Showing them to him would have been child abuse in and of itself. “Much of our infrastructure for treating the trauma of Niflheim refugees and immigrants are based on her reports, so they will likely feel familiar, along with information we still use for our stratagems. Her reports have been thoroughly disseminated and utilized among our agencies, but the reports themselves are… thoroughly descriptive of the nightmarish crimes that the Empire undertook.”

Noctis stares at the binder with contemplation. Ignis attempts to find the words to summarize his findings, that can do the travesties justice, where he won’t imagine the children involved as Prompto, but nothing sufficient comes to mind. Instead, Noctis crosses the room and picks up the binder, and begins to peruse it in silence.

“You’ll want pages 112, 145, and 189 to the end,” Ignis says instead. Noct flips to the middle to start accordingly.

To the credit of the sheer amount of training Noctis has undergone as the Crown Prince, his expression reveals nothing while he’s reading. With a pang, Ignis thinks for a moment that he afford Noctis the kindness of being able to read the reports in private, as he did. But it would be with little point—Noct is already flipping through to the next pages.

Ignis sets about to tidying up his desk in the meantime.

He knows when Noct is finished by the small, tired sigh.

“Well, now we know how badly we really fucked up with the restraints,” Noct says.

“We truly did,” Ignis says. “What is the point of having this information, of employing a woman to abandon her morals to send us this information, if we don’t even use it when applicable?”

“Yeah,” Noctis says, rapidly going through the binder again. “Yeah. Wait, how many refugees have we gotten who were escapees from the labs? Before Prompto, I didn’t even think we had any, but—yeah, here, Mendacium’s mom got out of the labs. How many people have done that?”

“We can’t possibly know, for not all of them would come to Lucis,” Ignis says, sitting down in his desk chair. Certainly Prompto did not, and how many others escaped and joined the Resistance is unknown to them. How long were these experiments going on for? The first MTs appeared in battle about twenty-five years ago. “I believe the total number of recorded cases that we have is only about twenty. And that is only for those who came forward.” Assuming that the experiments began before MTs made their appearance, that would mean that it was every few years that someone escape and also found refuge openly in Insomnia.

With only twenty, they barely have enough empirical research to demonstrate a pattern in the trauma these people have faced, not to even mention effective treatments. Ignis can see the point Noct might be leading to—with so few refugees who have escaped the labs in Insomnia and received treatment for it, they had little reason to suspect that Prompto would be one of them.

They had the information, but had no reason to suspect they would need to apply it.

Acknowledging his mistakes, as well as recognizing what was out of his control or scope of knowledge, is important for his progress according to his therapist. “We didn’t know,” he says, compulsively taking off his glasses to clean them. “It was not information we knew we needed to implement. That doesn’t mean that the harm wasn’t done. We’ll know better for the future.”

“Yeah,” Noct says, a bit hoarse sounding. He’s put down the binder. “We will.”

…

Nyx’s impressed. Not just with Prompto, but mostly with Prompto. After his episode and the conversation they had afterwards, he didn’t expect that the assassin would have the balls to stand up for himself like that.

The other person he’s impressed with is Lord Amicitia. If Nyx is honest, he wouldn’t have called that the Shield to the King would let a ‘no’ from their little assassin go unchallenged.

And now, Prompto has had a pleasant meeting with one of his soulmates and had his boundaries respected in another meeting, and the difference it makes for his mood is extraordinary. He smiles and hums while he reads some of the books Gladio brought for him, and his smile brightens up his whole face like the Six damned sun.

Nyx reminds himself that he shouldn’t be thinking that. And he has some good news to deliver to Prompto, too.

“Baron Argentum,” he says, and Prompto throws him a dirty look at the title from where he’s reading on the bed. “Sorry. Prompto. I just heard from Lord Amicitia. He says that so long as you’re accompanied by myself or another Glaive, you may explore the public areas of the Citadel as well as the Insomnia.” His tongue is getting used to using Gralean more frequently, now that he and Prompto speak it exclusively when it’s just the two of them in his room.

Prompto shoots up from the bed and shouts victoriously. “ _Yes_! Finally, I can leave this room! We should we go?”

That’s… a good question. Normally, nobility goes see the sights and fancy restaurants, but Nyx doesn’t think Prompto would care about that. “Well, what are you interested in?”

Prompto’s standing on top of his bed, rubbing the back of his neck thinking. A little less exuberant. “Maybe… is there anything to go see that I could take photos of?” Nyx takes back the thought he just had. He’s admittedly a little surprised, even as Prompto begins to deflate. “I don’t have my camera though…”

“You’re a photographer?” Nyx asks, ruder and more direct than he ever should be with a noble, but Prompto hasn’t really gotten to the point where he knows that.

He sits back down on the bed. “I’m not a photographer, I just like taking photos. In Gralea, I would often take photographs while waiting for targets to show up. A big camera case is also convenient to hide guns,” he adds as an afterthought.

Well, that’s good to know.

A detail from several weeks ago, when Ignis first reported his stalker, clicks into sense. “So you didn’t have a _gun_ when stalking Count Scientia?”

“No!” Prompto protests immediately, aghast. “It was a _camera_! I wasn’t trying to _kill_ him!”

It strikes Nyx that perhaps mentioning the Count wasn’t the best idea around Prompto, but he doesn’t seem to be reacting otherwise. Nyx tentatively suggests, “I’m sure we can get you a camera. And if you want, we can go sightseeing…?”

Prompto beams.

Yeah, okay. Nyx can deal with sightseeing again if it makes Prompto that happy.

After the past weeks he’s had, the little assassin deserves some happiness.

…

Sightseeing is a success, and much more fun for Nyx than escorting the usual noble. Prompto claims not to be much of a photographer, and his arm is still in a sling, so he doesn’t seem to think much of his own photographs. Nyx knows less to nothing on the subject and art in general, but the photos are nice to look at. Since they could, they go to less populated locations to get the best angles, which added a less touristy spin to the whole venture.

It’s the most relaxed and happiest Nyx has ever seen the little assassin, and he doesn’t even try to escape once. Nyx was certain that he would try, so it’s a pleasant surprise.

And a little suspicious. He’ll have to put it into his report. The assassin has wanted nothing this entire time but to go home, and his first time out, he doesn’t try?

If it were him, Nyx would have tried. But Nyx can admit to himself that he would try to escape even if it obviously was a bad idea.

And it would be a bad idea. Prompto’s still injured. He just got news that an ambassador from his home would be arriving in less than a week, and he just discovered that he can refuse suggestions, even from someone like Lord Amicitia. And with the risk that comes with recapture, and Prompto’s fear of their previous methods…

Nyx would probably still try to escape, as a matter of point and pride.

Prompto might just be smarter than he is.

“Hey,” Prompto says, while they’re meandering around the city. Nyx tries to subtly herd him back to the Citadel, but he’s not going. “What’s the name of that bar that the Kingsglaives like to go to in the Red Light District?”

For a second, Nyx doesn’t comprehend the question. Nobility wanting to go to the Red Light District is unfortunately a disgusting truth of life, but that first part… “Why do you know that there’s a bar that the Kingsglaives like to go to in the Red Light District?”

“Oh, um…” Prompto says, stopping entirely. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” Nyx asks with a bit more force. “How do you know that?”

Prompto fidgets a bit uncomfortably. “I, uh, spent most of my time when first arriving in Insomnia in the Red Light District. And the other slums. Including a bar that had a lot of Kingsglaives at it.” What. “I didn’t know you were all Kingsglaives until after you were all searching for me.” _What_. “I guess I assumed one of you would have remembered me?”

Fucking _shit_ , all of them were fucking dumb. Nyx does remember him, now that he mentioned it. A slip of a blond thing, nursing a shot in a corner. Gods, it was probably even a fire spirit he had been drinking. That bar was one of the few that even had Niff liquors.

Drautos was going to kill them.

“Sitio,” Nyx answers. “The bar’s name is Sitio.”

“Can we stop there for a drink? They’re the only place that has Niflheim liquors that aren’t so shitty they taste like gasoline.”

Well. If Nyx was in Prompto’s place, he’d want several stiff drinks. It’s getting late, so there might be other Kingsglaives at that bar. Bringing Prompto there is probably—no, _definitely_ —a bad idea that would get Nyx into trouble, but what would denying him this accomplish? It would stress him out, remind him that Nyx is his _guard_ , both to keep him safe and keep him _contained_. The bars on his cushy, glitzy prison would be visible again.

And the guy just wants a drink. It’s not unusual for nobles to want to go to a seedy bar. It’s not even technically against his orders. As long as Nyx stays glued to his asshole and doesn’t drink himself, Nyx’ll get off with just a strong reprimand and Drautos being disappointed in him.

And who knows? Maybe they’ll learn something. The others would sure be up for the challenge.

Nyx aims for a teasing smile. “I thought Niff drinks were supposed to taste like gasoline. Makes you tougher for the winter.”

Prompto scoffs. “Yeah, I’ve tasted the shit most places in Insomnia call ‘premium quality’ from Niflheim. It’s all terrible. Might as well be drinking gasoline, it’ll end your suffering faster.”

Nyx laughs a bit at that, pulling out his phone to send out an update. Then off they go.

…

There are other Kingsglaives there, lounging about at their usual table. Perfect. Nyx waves, and guides Prompto over.

The others shout their typical, raucous greetings when seeing him, and Nyx can see their entire demeanors change the second their eyes slide over to his companion. Crowe mouths, _What the fuck?_ at him, while Nyx smiles like the little shit they never let him forget he is.

“Hey, gang,” Nyx says. “Make room for us, come on.”

Luche’s giving him a glare that promises death and pain, but Crowe and Tredd scooch regardless. Nyx motions for Prompto to take the seat between them, and he does so, looking slightly uncomfortable. Trusting his comrades, even if they’re on their way to drunk, Nyx vanishes to the bar to get Prompto a fire spirit and himself a water.

When he returns, Prompto is carefully studying Tredd’s face. “Didn’t I… weren’t you the one I shot in the foot?”

Oh, _gods_ , Nyx thinks, even while he’s a little impressed Prompto remembers Tredd’s face. “Yup,” Tredd says. “That was me. You also broke my nose and stole my gun.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. He pauses for slightly longer than one should if they’re genuinely contrite. “Um, sorry about that.”

Nyx pushes between Luche and Axis so he’s across from his charge. He hands him his drink, and leans back so he can see everyone’s face. Meanwhile, Tredd considers Prompto, and then shrugs. “Eh, don’t worry about it. If I had been in your position, I would have tried to fuck up my captors way more than you did.”

Prompto visibly relaxes, and Nyx clears his throat to draw everyone’s attention. He wants to be able to savor this moment. “Everyone, this is Prompto. He’s the one who’s got that shiny new title of Baron recently, and as it turns out, frequented this very bar while on the run from us.”

Silence. Prompto sips his drink, looking unsure.

“Really?” Crowe asks.

Nyx doesn’t answer that, so Prompto does instead. “I didn’t know you all were Kingsglaives before, uh, I was discovered.” There it is, those expressions of muted horror as the others realize that _Drautos is going to kill them_. “I was only back here once afterwards, and that’s when I recognized most of you.”

Oh. Oh, that’s actually much worse than Nyx thought. Prompto had _been in the bar with them_ while they were actively looking for him.

By the expressions of everyone else around the table, they realized this as well and are never, ever going to speak of it again. In the hopes that Drautos might only kill them a little bit for not remembering the face of their target in the first place when in the same room as him.

“Is the fire spirit good?” asks Axis.

Prompto murmurs that it is and offers Axis a sip, who accepts tentatively.

Axis hums. “It’s strong. So that’s what your drinks are like in Niflheim?”

“To burn away the cold,” Prompto says. “Or bring on death quicker. Depends on who’s doing the drinking.”

“Really?” Crowe asks, and reaches her hand out for the glass. Prompto hands it to her, and she takes a sip herself. “Well, hot _damn_. Yeah, that’ll summon the Infernian himself.”

Prompto’s _smiling_ a bit. Nyx congratulates himself on his decision-making even while mentally drafting his extensive apology and explanation to the Captain and Lord Amicitia.

“You know what’s this made of?” Crowe asks.

“Fermented potatoes,” Prompto answers. “It’s one of the easiest things to grow for food, so it’s one of the easiest things to grow and then ferment for alcohol. Uh,” he hesitates, and then seems to gather a bit more courage. “Are most of you from Galahd? Like Nyx?”

“I am,” Crowe nods.

“I’m not,” says Tredd. “I’m from Cleigne. My family had to flee when Niflheim starting setting up bases in the region.”

“Accordo,” Axis says, and that’s it.

“My family is from Tenebrae,” says Luche. “But I grew up here. And—” here he glances quickly at Nyx, and he’s not sure what sort of hint he’s looking for, but he continues with, “—in case no one else here has said it, good job on assassinating the Emperor.”

There’s a loud chorus of agreement, while Prompto gets a couple of hearty slaps to the back. Nyx tenses, worried—but Prompto’s still smiling.

Nyx makes a mental note of that. Prompto’s aversion to touch seems to require specific circumstances for it to bother him. He said as much, those few days ago when he was so desperate for comfort that he would turn to the likes of Nyx for just someone to hold him. But give him a welcoming if a bit awkward social setting, and even a rowdy group doesn’t bother him.

“Fire spirits for everyone!” Crowe calls out, and all of the Glaives cheer. Prompto’s blushing now, but they get another shot in front of him. “Celebrating the death of the Emperor! And the guy who blasted his brains out!”

They cheer again and drink their shots, and so do several other groups in the bar who overhear that particularl toast.

“So, Prompto,” Tredd begins, waving down another round. “I was wondering something. Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Uh,” Prompto almost works himself up visibly, but calms down. They all ignore it. “Sure. Shoot.”

Nyx sends Tredd a warning glance, but he says, “When you broke out of the hospital,” and Nyx is going to put him _in the hospital_ for bringing a potentially upsetting topic up to when they just started getting Prompto to relax, “how’d you do that bright light thing with your gun?”

Sitting across from Prompto, Nyx can easily sip his water while keeping an eye on his reactions. He’s prepared to defuse the situation and remove Prompto if necessary. Prompto’s nervousness definitely increased as Tredd started the question, but it faded as it continued to be replaced by confusion.

“Oh, Star Shell,” which explains nothing. Nyx really wants to know this answer too because what happened there hadn’t made any sense. Drautos had been pissed when all they could say is that he hadn’t shot a bullet but blinded them with some bright light that he had shot somehow from Tredd’s gun. “I just, uh, use a bit of magic to make a bright light that last for a few minutes.”

That—

What?

“Magic,” Luche repeats.

“Yeah?” Prompto answers, clearly not sure what the problem is.

No one really knows how to explain to Prompto that he shouldn’t have magic. There’s some quick, exchanged looks, each of them wondering who should ask further.

Nyx takes it up. “Is magic common in Niflheim?” he asks carefully. Magic _shouldn’t_ be common in Niflheim. Manipulating magical reservoirs to enchant items is pretty standard, but most people don’t have any means for magic beyond what they can artificially collect from the reservoirs. The exceptions are the Lucis and Tenebrae royal families.

“It’s not common,” Prompto answers slowly. “But people like me can use it.”

“People like you?” Crowe asks softly. They’re all a little apprehensive as to what that means.

“Escaped lab specimens,” Prompto clarifies, simply, as if that wasn’t the most horrifying combination of words Nyx has ever heard. He knew to an extent already from their talk after the party, but hearing it so blatantly know is somehow worse. But Prompto keeps talking, “Niflheim created its MT soldiers through injections of daemon blood, which sometimes gives us some magic.”

The table has a moment of perfect, stunned silence. Prompto didn’t get as far as to tell Nyx this before, and he says this little piece of horror so easily.

 _Why_ tell them this? What’s different now? Is it the timing? Is it the audience? Nyx is keeping careful watch on how much Prompto drinks, but it’s only drink number two. Does this information feel different to him than what he told Nyx a few days ago? Or is this the difference between post-dissociative episode Prompto and currently stable Prompto?

Nyx had to write down what Prompto told him before, and it was very specific information. About restraints. Experimentation. Rape, too, when Nyx wasn’t supposed to hear.

How is this different?

“How… many people are there, that escaped from the labs?” Luche asks. He’s calm, his body language radiating relaxation and composure. He’s one of their leaders for a reason; he knows how to set people at ease.

Prompto shrugs. “Hundreds.”

Hundreds.

 _Hundreds_.

By unspoken agreement, they all allow Luche to continue this line of questioning. “Can all of them use magic?”

Because if they could, that would be… the ramifications of that would be… enormous.

In Lucis, only the royal family of has magic, and they share their magic with their chosen warriors. The fact that Niflheim, new regime or not, has hundreds of people with their _own_ magic at their disposal would alarm everyone in the Citadel.

Not to say the least of the fact that this is how MTs are _made_. Lucis has known that, for a while. Nyx believes it’s been fairly common knowledge on some level since he’s been a Kingsglaive. He’s escorted a couple refugees who survived and escaped from the labs to the Citadel so they can give their statements and whatever information they had.

(None of them have ever mentioned anything about _magic_ though.)

How MTs are made is not information that’s usually relevant to the Kingsglaives, and a quick look around the table clearly shows that all of them save Luche weren’t familiar with those reports. Perhaps they were barely familiar with the rumors themselves—with all of the atrocities they see on the battlefield, one more thing that really had no room in battle was barely worth knowing. At worst, it might even hinder them, knowing that MTs were also the victims of the Empire’s bloodthirsty war.

For Nyx, the reality that MTs used to be people never really sunk in until now, sitting across the table from a guy who was almost one of their faceless enemies. 

And Prompto says this all like it is a casual fact of life. Nyx supposes it must be, for him, if he and hundreds of others he knew lived it.

“Not all of them,” Prompto answers, after thinking about it for a moment with his head tilted. There might have been a subtle release of tension around the table. “It depends on what was and wasn’t done to them. A lot of people are just fucked up from the experiments.”

No one really wants to ask ‘fucked up how’ and a moment passes in silence.

Unusual for him, Prompto continues on his own. “The scientists mostly had their process to make MTs pretty set and solid these past few years. People for that process didn’t escape until we started breaking them out. The ones who get out on their own were usually on track for new experimental procedures, like me and my sister.”

Despite the fact that Nyx is totally fine and he can take people talking about their own sisters because _come on_ he’s not that fragile, the Glaives at the table shoot him a look. _Come on guys, Prompto might fucking notice that_ , he thinks at them, willing them all to suddenly be able to read his thoughts. Luche leans into him, either as a show of support or to see if he’s suppressing his sad feelings or something, and Nyx elbows him in the ribs. But discreetly, so Prompto doesn’t notice.

“Hopefully this new Empress is better,” says Tredd. He flinches as soon as he’s said it. “Not that anything could really be much worse than that.”

“Oh, it can always be worse,” Prompto says. “But Aranea won’t be worse. She’s trying to fix things.”

Nyx distractedly notes the first name usage. A somber mood descends on the group, too many thoughts used to contemplate the Empire and the War.

“Alright,” Crowe says. “This is getting depressing. I think we need another round. And a lighter subject, we should be celebrating this guy for offing the Emperor, not moping around about the future. Another round, and a toast,” she says, “to Niflheim no longer being such a fucking shithole!”

Everyone, including Prompto, cheer a little harder than necessary for that, and then Nyx’s job for the rest of the night is to stop the newly titled Baron from getting shitfaced drunk with a bunch of Glaives.

_(art by the wonderful[kickingshoes](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, go [here for the original post](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/163908366077/two-of-my-favorite-scenes-so-far-from-seladorie)!)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to introduce the ambassador in this chapter but didn't get to it, so either next chapter or the chapter after that, depending on how much stuff I fit into them.


	9. Tea Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just fyi for those who don't follow me on tumblr, I'm about to start a new job and I'm also trying to move soon, so the next update might take a little while longer. 
> 
> Also, I'm so happy and flattered by the response this fic is getting. Y'all have been so sweet and awesome, I love all of you <3

The week awaiting the arrival of the ambassador passes by painfully slow. Prompto spends most of it reading, doing his physical therapy with Gladio, playing video games with Noctis, and going out to take photos with Nyx. The edge of nervousness over these freedoms never goes away; that someone will decide that Prompto is too dangerous and lock him up again.

But so far, no one’s said a thing. As long as he never leaves Nyx’s side, his freedoms remain intact.  

Even that one night Nyx dragged Prompto back to the Citadel drunk. He doesn’t know for sure how much about that outing Clarus knows about, but he said plenty that Nyx should have to include in his reports. He’s not sure how much of it is news to Lucis—in Niflheim, at least in the Resistance, being an escaped lab specimen isn’t unusual. It’s almost as casual as discussing the weather—‘what lab did you get out of,’ ‘when did you get out,’ _everyone_ knows not to ask about details. Not like here.

Well. They don’t know that here because they don’t have their scientists conducting horrific experiments on their citizenry, so they don’t know not to ask.

The fact that Prompto and others escaped from labs isn’t news or even any sort of an attempted secret. Whoever the ambassador is, since Aranea would have to pick someone from the Resistance, they will likely mention it too.

At least Prompto can understand the glaives’ reactions to the labs. The horror show never stops, even if Prompto and most of his friends were created there and had to fight the reason of their existence for their entire lives. He hadn’t expected the surprise about the magic, though. He’s not sure why. They couldn’t have thought that the experiments conducted on so many people would be without consequences? Not when the usual goal was an MT.

But even though Prompto _knows_ that Nyx sent that information, no one mentions or alludes to it. He hoped he gave them enough to satisfy their curiosity, but worries he gave them too much. Clarus calls him in for tea again, but he doesn’t ask Prompto to talk about his past. He just asks him about how he’s finding Insomnia, so Prompto spends an uncomfortable hour describing his recent activities to the Shield of the King.

Prompto also finds himself, bizarrely, occasionally stuck in conversation with Lucian nobles who politely ask him about things like ‘what does he think about the new Empress’ to which he shrugs, but also things like ‘does the Empress have a stance on the export of Leiden peppers’ to which Nyx quietly explained afterwards that that Baron was invested in a lot of agricultural projects.

Prompto tries to avoid Lucian nobility as much as he could.

It’s fortunately not too hard. He’s recovering still, so much of his time is spent in what he’s starting to refer to as his room. Gladio is a frequent visitor, who hooks him up with a couple of books they discuss each day. He even tries to hold the most of the conversations in Gralean for Prompto, and he’s pretty good at it, even though his accent is terrible. Prompto reads the Lucian translation of _Dignity and Discrimination_ in an evening, so Gladio gives him a text by a Lucian author, who wrote a dramatized version of Queen Hasta and her soulmate, Viridia.

“Was Mataris as bad in history as he is in the book?” Prompto asks.

“Worse, actually. I’m not sure if he spent as much time as he does in the book trying to ruin Hasta’s life, but he certainly did a lot of other things.” Gladio shrugs, gently feeling Prompto’s shoulder joint for swelling. “He supported a lot of unpopular policy decisions that… very distinctly benefited the aristocracy at the cost of the people.”

Well, Prompto’s familiar with rulers like that. “What happened to him?”

Gladio motions for Prompto to start his stretches, which he does. “He and Hasta got into a feud, and gathered their allies against each other. Hasta won.”

“It says in the book that the Amicitia family sided with Hasta,” Prompto says. “And that Nota Amicitia’s soulmate was also a man.”

Gladio grins softly when he’s talking about books. “That’s true, as far as we know. He never married and lived with a man for fifty years. He and Hasta were quite good friends. Their soulmates got along too.”

“Mataris had his own Shield, didn’t he?” Prompto asks, flipping through the book. “Yeah, Parma.”

“My family generally doesn’t talk about Parma,” Gladio says, and Prompto’s about to just accept that, but he explains further. “It was… rumored, at the time, that Mataris was Parma’s soulmate, but Parma wasn’t Mataris’. I think the book talks about that later. It was kind of a… well-known secret, at the time. Or shame, rather.”

“No, I got to that in the book, I just don’t understand,” Prompto says. “Why was it such a problem? Surely Hasta would have been understanding.”

“Ah, but Mataris wasn’t,” Gladio says. “Mataris never revealed who his soulmate was in his entire lifetime, and he vehemently disliked the very idea of soulmates. And, uh, I think at the end of the book, the author specifies that the rumors were that Mataris could see Parma’s words, but Parma couldn’t see his.”

“Did he have a soulmate at all?” Prompto asks, thinking of Aranea. Gladio stops talking, and Prompto realizes he rudely interrupted him. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, that’s fine,” Gladio says. “I just never thought of that. It’s… really rare, for someone to not have a soulmate, here. Is that more common in Niflheim?”

Well, yes, thanks to the experiments. “Not common, but not uncommon either,” Prompto settles on.

Gladio seems curious about that, but he doesn’t ask. “Most historians, as well as this author, think that Mataris was spurned by his soulmate, or that he rejected his soulmate for being unsuitable,” Gladio says slowly. “But not having a soulmate does happen. That could be it. It would explain why he treated Parma and Hasta so horrifically.”

“Envy?” Prompto suggests.

“Yeah. Yeah, that would do it,” Gladio says softly. He cleared his thought after a moment of staring off at the wall. “Parma abandoned his Prince. Amicitias tend to occupy a… weird role, politically, because we’re supposed to protect and give our lives for the royal family, but we also kept them in check.” Yeah, Prompto’s read about those. Times when Shield and Kings clashed violently, which always produced a loser. “But generally, we’re pretty tight. When Mataris was exiled, it was assumed Parma would join him, but when Hasta offered him a position if he stayed… he stayed. Mataris was exiled on his own and died shortly after.”

“So Parma is a shame on the Amicitia family because his soulmate was a man, it was an unreciprocated bond, and he abandoned his Prince?” Prompto sums up.

Gladio smiles at him. “You’re getting the hang of these Lucian politics! Yeah, that’s the short of it.”

“Poor guy,” is all Prompto can say.

…

Prompto enjoys talking to Gladio. He even enjoys the PT because of it. And his video game sessions with Noctis happen about once a day, because the Prince writes on his arm, _hey prompto I have the evening free_ (or _the afternoon_ , or _a couple of hours_ ) _wanna play some more warrior’s vigil?_

Prompto doesn’t get any better at shooting in video games, but that’s not the point.

They start writing notes on themselves again, to each other. Little things, like Noctis’ message, or the kind of thing Prompto used to see them write when he wasn’t one of them. Gladio’s little messages of _be there in a min_ and Noctis writing _hurry up_ , except now these messages are sometimes directed at _Prompto_.

But there’s nothing from Ignis.

He doesn’t see Ignis at all. Neither Noctis or Gladio make any mention of him. Prompto begins to worry, now that he’s feeling better, and the events of the party grow farther away.

But he doesn’t know how to do this. Has no idea.

He’s trying to think of a way that’s less terrifying than asking for a meeting because that… makes him twitchy. He hates official meetings but he doesn’t know how else he’ll get a chance to talk to Ignis, especially if _he’s_ avoiding _him_.

Prompto’s trying to read before bed, and it’s getting late, but he can’t focus and doesn’t want to sleep yet. His eyes keep drifting to the skin on his bare wrist. That arm’s still in a sling, but he could write on it.

But what could he say?

He gets as far as picking up a pen and letting it hover over his skin. The glaive that’s with him, one he doesn’t recognize, doesn’t react at all. And doesn’t really talk to him.

There’s a common game that people play with their soulmates, and that even Prompto and his soulmates would play together occasionally all those years ago. One of them would start a drawing, another would add to it, and they would go back and forth until the drawing was done or they were out of space.

They didn’t play this game often as children. It makes sense to Prompto why, now. On his part, Prompto never quite got over the sting of being ignored by his soulmates to want to play it that often. But sometimes, when he was alone and stuck in some safe house whose safety was questionable, waiting for his ragtag family to return, he would doodle on his arms.

And sometimes his soulmates would draw back.

He starts to draw a building, roughly based on what he saw in Insomnia. Prompto leaves it very unfinished and wonders if he should wait. It’s late, chances are none of them are up still—but as he’s deciding, the rest of the building is filled in.

It’s late, but any one of his three soulmates could have plenty of reasons to still be up. Prompto can tell by the ink that it’s a shitty ballpoint pen, which also could be any of them, but Prompto gets stuck for a moment trying to remember the last time he saw a ballpoint pen lying around. All of the pens these people have are nice and fancy, great for paper and for skin.

Even Noctis and Gladio and…

The strokes of the pen are abrupt but restrained, quick but ending at deliberate points. It’s just a drawing, but that’s how Ignis writes.

_Did he get a ballpoint pen out so I wouldn’t know it was him_? Prompto wonders, confused.

That doesn’t make any sense. He’s been avoiding Prompto, why would he care if Prompto knows he’s responding to a silly drawing game?

Prompto goes ahead and starts drawing some trees. Ignis adds another building, and they keep going until they have a skyline up along the inside of his left forearm that doesn’t resemble any place Prompto has ever been. It actually looks pretty nice.

The drawing’s done, and it’s still late, and Prompto _knows_ that it’s Ignis’ on the other end. But he doesn’t know how to proceed from here.

A few minutes pass while he’s racked with indecision, and Ignis writes nothing more. He might even be asleep by now.

Finally, Prompto jots down, _can we do tea again sometime?_ before he can think better of it, and regrets it immediately. Ignis wouldn’t want to see him, what is he thinking, not after all Prompto’s done to him.

He gets up, and heads to the bathroom. The glaive clearly watches him, but Prompto ignores him, desperate to erase the words before Ignis has a chance to see them. No luck. He’s got the towel in hand when he sees new, crisp, lines take form.

_Certainly. Tomorrow at 2 sound good?_

No. No, it did not. Prompto needs more time than that to freak out.

He writes, _yeah that’s good_

And that’s it.

He goes back to bed, words all intact, feeling sick.

…

Time drags while Prompto worries himself into an almost panic about getting tea with Ignis.

When Nyx arrives that morning for his shift, he’s puzzled by Prompto’s state. “Did something happen?”

“I’m having tea with Ignis this afternoon,” Prompto says, picking at the scar on his wrist.

Nyx visibly double takes. “ _What_? Did—was it Lord Amicitia?”

“What?” Prompto stares.

“Did Lord Amicitia come talk to you again?” Nyx says. Prompto continues to not comprehend, so he clarifies, “Who talked to you about meeting with Scientia? I didn’t think any of them were going to push that issue.”

“Oh, no,” Prompto says. “No one talked to me about it. I asked Ignis to meet.”

Nyx stares at him, and Prompto looks away, picking a bit more intently at his scar. “When did this happen?”

“Last night,” Prompto mutters. “It’s a bad idea, isn’t it?” Threads of panic knot up in his chest. What was he _thinking_ —

“No, no,” Nyx says. “That’s not what I meant. Talk to him if you want to. I’m just… a little surprised. What made you decide you wanted to talk to Scientia?” After a pause, “And seriously, when did that happen?”

“Last night,” Prompto says, since that’s the easiest part of that to answer. “I wrote him a note.”

“Okay,” Nyx says. He’s staring intently at Prompto’s wrist, which he realizes is bleeding. He picked at the scar too much. “Why don’t I get you something for that?”

His soulmates all have a scar on their wrists already. They probably won’t notice such a small mark on what is already a large scar, but the idea that he’s leaving even _more_ marks on his soulmates laces the twisting anxiety in his gut with guilt.

Prompto is such a terrible soulmate.

Nyx sits down next to him with a band aid, and he accepts the small slip and puts it on. Though his left arm is in a sling, his left hand is mobile enough to put on a bandage. As well as rip open his skin to need one in the first place.

“So,” Nyx says. “What made you reach out to Ignis?”

Prompto squirms a bit. “I want to apologize to him.”

“Oh,” Nyx says in an odd tone. “For what?”

Prompto leans back away from Nyx. “What do you mean ‘ _for what_ ’?”

“If you’re apologizing,” Nyx says, voice careful. Prompto kind of hates that tone now. “You’re apologizing for something specific, aren’t you?”

_No, I just wanted to apologize for my entire existence_ , Prompto thinks, meanly, sarcastically, but also with more honesty than he’s comfortable with. “I guess I want to apologize for the party.”

“Prompto,” Nyx says gently, and with care, he gently puts a supportive hand on Prompto’s good shoulder. He watches him carefully for his reaction, which is more discomforting than the hand itself. “Count Scientia isn’t going to blame you for what happened after the party.”

“I would be freaked out if someone grabbed my pants,” Prompto says to his leg. “And I know it upset him. So I should apologize.” Nyx is about to say something, but Prompto rolls on with, “And for the stalking. I didn’t know how badly that would be taken here, and now that I do, I should apologize for that too.”

Nyx’s brows furrow. “Wait, does stalking mean something different in Niflheim?”

Prompto wants to pick at his band aid now, and it almost hurts not to. “No, it’s—as a sniper in the Resistance, my job was partly to keep others safe,” Prompto tries to explain. “That often means acting as back-up. Someone else goes on a mission, and I follow behind at a distance with my rifle. If they get in trouble, I keep my people safe by picking off their enemies.” Nyx looks stunned, but Prompto’s too frustrated to pay it much mind. He’s found a thread on his pants to pull out now, so that’s a little better. “I forgot that’s normally a bad thing. I’ve been in the Resistance since I was ten, it’s just how we did things. My friends called me a stalker then too, but it was—a joke. I was a reassurance. I was helping to protect them. They trusted me.”

“That—” Nyx begins. “That would be a good thing to tell Count Scientia. That’s a pretty big misunderstanding.” He pauses, and the hand on Prompto’s shoulder squeezes a bit. “You sure you’re up to talk to him today?”

If he doesn’t today, Prompto doesn’t think he’ll ever work up the courage to face his soulmate ever again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

…

“He’s picking at his scar,” Ignis mutters, fingers smoothing over the area, which predictably does nothing to alleviate the nagging itch.

“There’s nothing you can do about it, Ig,” Gladio says from the bed.

“I can call off tea. I should. If the prospect of meeting with me is causing him such distress that he’s harming himself, then I shouldn’t—”

“Didn’t he contact you?” Noct asks, already knowing the answer.

Iggy casts a scathing look to Noct’s relaxed form flopped onto his bed. He has a meeting soon, and he won’t be ready if he says in bed for much longer. “He did. But he may feel obligated to do so. If I am to meet with him, I would prefer they be under circumstances that might improve our association, not worsen it.” He feels a headache forming. “But he _did_ reach out to _me_ …”

“And we can’t see him as a problem to be solved,” Gladio repeats from what Clarus discussed with them several days ago. When Ignis’ capability to mangle his relationship with his new soulmate beyond recognition was clearly demonstrated by Prompto’s abject refusal to even talk to him.

Ignis sighs. “I must assume that if he asked for a meeting, he must want one. Refusing to meet him will only be taken the wrong way. As rejection, avoidance, or blame.”

“Yup,” Noctis drawls into the sheets.

“But he’s hurting himself.”

“And what do you think you can do, make him stop?” Noctis grumbles. “Just go to tea. It’ll be fine.” Ignis genuinely doubts that, and Noctis, knowing him so well, adds, “Well, it probably won’t get _worse_ , and at this point, you also don’t have anything to lose. Just go and enjoy some Six-damned tea.”

It’s not that simple, and Ignis can immediately think of many possible scenarios in which they end up worse than they are now.

“I can’t see how things can improve from here,” Ignis says carefully. “I’m not sure how to recover from what has happened, and if recovery is even possible.”

“He contacted you,” Gladio repeats, getting up from the bed, and walking up until he’s pressed flushed against Ignis. “We didn’t even think he would talk to you before the month’s up, so that’s a good sign. And, you know,” he says, rubbing up Ignis’ wrists reassuringly. His hands are warm, the callouses hard and smooth against Ignis’ skin. “Even if it doesn’t go well, you still have me and Noct. It’ll be alright.”

_It will be alright_ , Ignis tells himself. He will do as much as he can to make it so, and it will be alright.

…

Tea takes place in the same location as it did before, a beautiful courtyard framed by a well-tended to garden. There are a couple of Crownsguards present, but they’re not close enough to feel invasive of the setting and the impeding conversation. The set-up and food is almost exactly the same, but there are a lot more of the _blinchik_ , _pirozhki_ , and _ptichye moloko_. Prompto’s a little relieved that even though the food’s fancy, it’s a fancy he’s familiar with.

It sets him at ease, and it takes him until he’s sitting down to realize that’s the point, which immediately curdles the effect.

The words he’s prepared vanish from his thoughts.

He doesn’t really want any of the food anymore.

Ignis pours him some tea, and as Prompto guessed, it’s gunpowder green again. He takes a sip, and its bitterness almost matches his.

“This is…” Prompto begins, but doesn’t know how to finish. It’s almost nice, if it wasn’t so blatantly a trap. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Ignis says, after a beat. “How are you finding Insomnia?”

“It’s… been okay,” Prompto answers, annoyed by the question and by the fact that his answer is mostly true. Being able to explore the city freely, even though Nyx has to come with him, has been kind of pleasant. And Nyx is good company—Prompto can forget he’s a prisoner with him.

“I’ve heard you’re a bit of a photographer,” Ignis says, and Prompto wonders who told him. It’s not a secret, but the idea that so many people are watching his actions and reporting on them, _using_ that information to manipulate him makes him want to throw the tea cup across the room.

So he says, “Yeah, I was actually taking photos of you when you saw me,” to see Ignis stiffen. Immediately, guilt curls in his gut. This isn’t why he called this meeting. “Sorry,” he mutters, and clears his throat. He shoots a glance at the Crownsguards, but continues anyway, “Sorry. I, actually, um, wanted to apologize about that.”

The pause before Ignis speaks is just enough for Prompto to consider continue, and not find the words in time to be able to. “I also would like to apologize,” which isn’t exactly what Prompto’s expecting. It really wasn’t Ignis’ fault. He didn’t actually _do_ anything. “The actions I took in two of our meetings now greatly upset you; inadvertently and unintentionally, but those are cold comforts at best. I will endeavour to avoid making similar mistakes in the future.”

That stops Prompto in his tracks, but a niggling sensation of dissatisfaction blossoms. “But you don’t even know what the problem was.” He doesn’t even want to drink of his tea, but he can’t make himself put it down and lose the comfort of holding it. This way, he can grip it, instead of digging into his scar again which throbs at the thought.

“I have gone through our reports from our intelligence about what happens in Niflheim laboratories,” Ignis says after a lengthy and heavy pause. “What I have found is more than enough to understand what I, and others, did wrong.”

“You have _reports_?” Prompto exclaims. The horrific implications of that statement don’t even settle completely before he demands, “ _What_ reports?”

Ignis leans back in his chair, brow furrowed and not making eye contact. “I thought the Resistance was aware of Lucian spies in the Empire.”

“Yeah, we knew you had _spies_ , but not in the fucking _labs_! Do you even _know_ what they did in the labs!” Prompto says, edging towards a volume better described as shouting. There are Crownsguards nearby, but Prompto couldn’t care less about them. He does remember, briefly, that Nyx is by the doorway, and all he can think about that is that Nyx better not stop him now.

“Yes,” Ignis says evenly. It pisses Prompto off, that he can be so calm about this. “We know because of our spies—”

“ _Helped them_?” Prompto cuts him off. “You _know_ because your spies _helped_ them do their _fucking_ experiments!” Ignis clearly doesn’t know how to respond to this and says nothing to stop Prompto’s rising fury. “ _Who was it_?”

“I can’t—”

“ _WHO WAS IT_?” Prompto yells, the tea cup breaking in his grasp. Hot tea spills onto his pants, but the burning is nothing compared to the anger thrumming through his body. He wonders, briefly, if Ignis can feel the burn too. “When were they _there_? When were they in the Keep? Were they—” A moment of indecision stoppers up his words, but anger drives them through. “Were they _there_ when _I_ was _there?_ ”

Gratifyingly, Ignis’ eyes widen and his mouth open in shock.

Prompto flinches as a dark form appears by the tables, even though he realizes during that it’s only Nyx. Nyx with a cloth napkin. “Here, Baron Argentum, for the spill,” he says, formal and stiff because Prompto’s still supposed to be nobility. Proper and restrained. Well, he certainly just _ruined_ that. “Count Scientia, if you would excuse us for a moment,” he says, as Prompto accepts the napkin and blindly presses it against his leg.

Prompto’s not sure if Ignis nods or says anything, can’t even remember that he needs to move until Nyx gently touches his good shoulder. The touch jolts him out of place and he’s across the room, desperate to get away as soon as possible.

“We can go to your room and get you clean pants,” Nyx says quietly as they walk away from the courtyard, a hand on Prompto’s back guiding him. “I’m sure Count Scientia won’t mind if we take a little while.”

Prompto doesn’t care about his pants. “Who were the spies in the laboratories?”

“I can’t tell you that. Neither can Count Scientia,” Nyx says quietly but firmly, switching to Gralean. “They were doing a job. A shit job, a job no one should ever want to do or ever should _have_ to do, but we got necessary information from them that has helped a lot of people.”

“When?” Prompto says, throat dry. “If they were there—if they were there ten years ago, then—then they—”

Nyx’s hand squeezes his shoulder as they walk. “I know. But Scientia didn’t make those decisions. He couldn’t have. We’ve had spies in the Empire for as long as the war, and people in the labs since before the Prince was born. It’s not something Scientia had any part in.”

“They have reports,” Prompto mutters. They arrive at the room and as is customary, Nyx checks it first quickly before waving Prompto in.

“We do have reports. We needed that information,” Nyx says, going to the dresser where the clothes provided to Prompto are. They’re stiff, and the fabrics are distinctly Lucian and money, but the damp spot on his pants are getting cold. “Look,” Nyx says. “If it wasn’t one of our spies, it would have been someone else. Someone else who wasn’t working against the Empire. We needed to know what the labs were doing, and it was worse than we ever imagined. It’s _still_ worse than we thought, because we’re learning more from you. And I have to report that information to Lord Amicitia.” Well, yes, at least Prompto knew about _that_. “But it’s important. We need to know what we’re fighting in the field. We needed to know what decisions the people in charge were making. We needed to know how to target the labs, and to do that, we needed to know what they were doing. We needed to know how to help refugees from Niflheim coming to Lucis with trauma we couldn’t even think would be possible.”

It makes sense, until it doesn’t, and anger swells again. “But if you had this information, why the _fuck_ did you assholes fuck up so badly with _me_?”

Nyx sighs, pulling out a clean pair of pants for Prompto. “I don’t really know that one. I don’t get to sit in on the decisions the Council makes. But—for the Kingsglaives—we have access to those reports, but we don’t use them unless they’re relevant. And that’s probably it. No one knew it would be relevant.”

Well, that’s a big fucking disappointment. He shucks off his pants and accepts the clean ones. “They didn’t know it would be relevant,” he repeats in a mutter, roughly pulling on the pants. “They didn’t know it would be _fucking_ relevant.”

“I know it doesn’t make anything better,” Nyx says after Prompto dresses in silence. “And—they’ve made a lot of mistakes. Especially with you.” Prompto snorts, still so angry. “Do you want to stay here? I’m sure Scientia would understand if you don’t want to go back after that.”

By the Six, _yes_ , he wants to stay here until he can’t feel Ifrit’s fire in his veins, until the ambassador arrives, and he can go home.

His head throbs, pain and exhaustion all at once. “No, let’s go back. I can’t keep fighting with Ignis. This is getting ridiculous.”

“If you’re sure,” Nyx concedes.

…

Prompto’s still angry, still exhausted when their walk concludes and they’re back at the courtyard. He only vaguely knows what he wants to say.

Ignis is still there. Did he leave and come back, or has he been here the entire time? Prompto can’t tell. Ignis’ composure is back and fits as well as his suit, and Prompto grows keenly aware that he must look like common riff-raff compared to him.

He sits down. There’s a new cup of tea for him, and the shards and liquid from the one he broke is gone. It brings Prompto’s anger down a level, guilt stifling it over wondering who cleaned up the mess he made.

“It appears I must apologize again,” Ignis says, words heavy. “It seems I manage to worsen the situation every interaction we have.”

For the most part, yes. “The last tea party was fine,” Prompto says.

After a breath, Ignis says, “This isn’t technically a tea party,” and Prompto shrugs, uncaring. “Regardless, most of our meetings have ended poorly.”

He sighs, leaning against the arm of the chair. “Yeah, they have.”

“All of my attempts to remedy the situation backfire spectacularly,” Ignis continues. “I’m afraid I’m at a loss of what to do.”

“What you said earlier was probably the worst thing you could have said to me,” Prompto says when it’s clear Ignis had nothing more to say. “Just. Everything about it was terrible.”

“I had thought, quite clearly mistakenly, that the Resistance was aware of our spies in the laboratories,” Ignis says carefully, and Prompto tenses, and tries to let it pass. “I’ve read the reports to better understand what your situation might be without asking you to relive your trauma by speaking of it. I was hoping to minimize your discomfort while avoiding mistakes like those we’ve already made since you’ve been here.”

That… makes sense. Prompto said to Clarus that he doesn’t want to talk about his past. “I absolutely can never know the identity or meet any of your spies who worked in the labs,” Prompto says, enunciating his Lucian carefully and staring Ignis straight in the eyes. “Because I would kill them.”

Ignis meets his gaze, and after a second, nods. “I understand.”

“Okay,” Prompto says, relaxing a bit more into the chair. He takes a sip of his tea, and tries to find the heat soothing. He stares at his reflection of the surface, trying to find the words to explain what he thinks keeps going wrong. He tries, “You keep trying to make me comfortable.”

“I keep trying to make you comfortable,” Ignis repeats, trying not to show his increduality and failing. “And… that’s—a bad thing?”

“No, I mean, it’s,” Prompto struggles. “It’s not working.”

“Clearly,” Ignis says.

And Prompto, annoyed, snaps, “I’m _trying_ , I don’t know what it is.”

“No, that’s not what I—I know,” Ignis says. “Clearly it’s not working. Is there…” His lips purse. “Is there anything… specific… that isn’t working? That I could do differently.”

Prompto contemplates that, he really does, but he doesn’t _know_. He searches for the common thread, but there’s too much in the way to see clearly.

Meanwhile, Ignis is pinning him with a calculating stare which makes Prompto twitchy.

“You seem,” Ignis begins deliberately, “to react strongly when things are out of your control.”

“No,” Prompto says immediately. “I get upset when I feel _threatened_. You know, because I’m _afraid_. Because being at the mercy of others is _terrifying_.”

“But I haven’t threatened you,” Ignis protests, sitting up straighter and frowning. “I’ve only tried to—”

“You were the only person in the room with me when I was restrained, and you wouldn’t let me go,” Prompto accuses. “How is that _not_ threatening?”

“But I didn’t _threaten_ you, and I couldn’t let you go—”

“You’re saying that if you were tied down in a room alone with a stranger, you wouldn’t feel threatened?”

“I—that’s not—” Ignis stops himself. “You weren’t restrained at the party.”

“You took me away from the party and locked us in a room together,” Prompto says, tense and angry and maybe a little frightened. He knows Nyx is still behind him by the door, but there are two Crownsguards—wait, they added a third one while he was gone, that’s a little unnerving— in the room who, for all that nothing shows on their faces, are listening.

Ignis’ thoughts are written on his face, but they may as well be in another language for how much Prompto can read on him. “So it’s not just the restraints,” Ignis mutters, largely to himself. He resists the urge to tell him that the restraints were kind of a big fucking part of the whole thing but Ignis goes on with, “You don’t like it when decisions about you are made for you.”

That at least sounded true, but reflexively he says, “Does anyone?”

Ignis considers this with more thought than Prompto meant for him to. “The majority of my tasks as the Prince’s Advisor require that I make decisions on others’ behalf. For my brand of work, success is greatest if no others are aware that there even is a problem. And if they must be aware, the less they have to think about it, the better.”

Prompto waits for him to have a point. “Okay…?”

“My method of helping includes taking decisions out of your hands,” Ignis states, pushing forward. Their respective tea has been forgotten at this point, the food on the table ignored and cold. “And—forgive me if this is too bold to say—you interpret that as taking away your freedom and agency. The way I am used to helping and comforting is incompatible with your needs.”

Startled, Prompto twists his neck briefly to glance at Nyx, who said something very similar a couple of weeks ago. He hadn’t thought Nyx was _right_ about that.

“Is something the matter?” Ignis asks, lips curving downwards, eyes flicking between Nyx and Prompto.

“No, I—you mean, you’ve been trying to help me, like you help the Prince,” Prompto says, repeating words said to him while he was shaky and out of it and so very, very frightened. “But my problems are different from the Prince’s.”

Ignis silently watches him for a moment, and Prompto can see his eyes glide slowly back to Nyx before returning to settle on Prompto. He wishes he hadn’t looked back at Nyx—that’s probably going to bite him in the ass later, somehow. “I believe that may be the heart of the problem.”

Prompto can’t risk looking back at Nyx again, but he knows that he must remain as impassive as ever. Even though Prompto’s just thrown him to the mercy of nobility. “I—I mean,” Prompto says, backpedaling, “I—I understand that Lucis is a very different place than Niflheim. And, uh, actions get misinterpreted. Like when I stalked you.”

That isn’t how he wanted to begin his apology to Ignis, but it does successfully pull Ignis’ attention away from Nyx. “I beg your pardon?”

Prompto fumbles with his words, and he lifts his cup up to take a sip and gather his thoughts. It doesn’t help. “I didn’t know stalking was, um, so negative here, I guess?”

Ignis is staring at him now, attention fully on him. “I didn’t realize that stalking was an acceptable pastime in Niflheim.”

“ _No_ ,” Prompto says forcefully and a bit defensively. “That’s not what I meant. I meant—as part of the Resistance, I was in charge of—” Explaining this to Nyx was so much _easier_. “—protection. I would shadow them from a distance. Keep an eye on them, be backup, catch loyalists by surprise.”

Ignis’ expression is a study of polite, aristocratic surprise, and he says, “And you were using a camera to take pictures of me?”

“Right. I didn’t bring my rifle with me here,” Prompto says. “I didn’t really think that I would be threatening. I’m not threatening my friends when I follow them.”

“But you are threatening to your enemies,” Ignis points out.

Prompto flinches a little. “That’s… true.” He chews on his bottom lip, staring into his mug, which is cooling in his hands. His friends always knew he was present, and if they didn’t, he was still a welcome surprise. If you didn’t know if he was friend or foe, like Ignis didn’t, then he would be terrifying. “I guess we both didn’t know a lot of things.”

Ignis sighs. “Indeed. That would be putting it mildly.”

They both sit silently for a moment, though it’s not quiet. Though the courtyard is empty nearby save for them and their guards, the distant sounds of the Citadel and of Insomnia create an ambient, white noise that Prompto’s almost used to. Silence, in Niflheim, was silence. Fear, or cold, or hunger, or pain, kept people quiet. This is not so in Insomnia.

“I can change my methods of assistance to better suit your needs,” Ignis says finally. “But I’m afraid I’m not quite certain what methods would best help you and prevent further misunderstandings.”

Prompto hunches over a bit. “I don’t know,” he says, knowing it’s unhelpful and wishing he could be better. He hates the way those Lucian words feel on his tongue.

“Well then,” Ignis says, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. “Glaive Ulric,” and Prompto sits up straighter in his chair. “Perhaps you might be willing to join this conversation? I rather think you might be able to shed some light onto this matter.”

“What?” Prompto yelps. This time he gives into the urge to look back at Nyx, whose surprise only faintly touches his expression. An indication of how startled he really is. “Why?”

“Glaive Ulric seems to have been rather successful when diffusing situations as they arise and de-escalating,” Ignis says. “If both of you are comfortable with it, I would like to hear his thoughts on possible solutions.”

“Um,” Prompto says. He scooches out his chair to better face both Nyx and Ignis, making a horrific screeching sound against the pretty, stone flooring, which is gold on black, and beautiful like everything else in the Citadel. He flinches a bit at the sound, as does Ignis. Nyx is pretty still where he is. “I can’t speak for Nyx,” he says, immediately realizing too late that he probably shouldn’t call Nyx by his first name. “I mean, only if he’s okay with that…”

“Of course, my lord,” Nyx says, stepping forward towards the table, standing at rest. Prompto hates that title and hates that Nyx is calling him that. Even though he must. “What would you like to know?”

“I suppose the best place to start is to ask how you’ve approached de-escalating these situations,” Ignis says.

Before Nyx can even open his mouth, Prompto says sharply, “Why don’t we get a chair for Nyx if we’re going to question him?”

“I can stand,” Nyx says as Ignis calls out, “A third chair, please.”

One of the Crownsguards leaves to bring out a third chair, while they all wait in silence. Nyx’s expression is back to impassive, Prompto worries that he should have just let Nyx loom over the table, and Ignis’s face is tense with impatience.

“If he wants to stand—” Prompto begins, but Ignis is waves a hand, cutting him off.

“No, you’re right. We needn’t make him stand while we’re talking to him.”

Prompto glances up at Nyx, who doesn’t react at all.

Nyx sits when the Crownsguard returns, and Prompto thinks he looks out of place. Given how stiff he is, he likely thinks the same.

“Well, then, if we’re sorted, Glaive Ulric,” Ignis says, then pauses. “Nyx. Three times now that I know of you’ve managed to apparently help calm Prompto. If you would be so kind, I would like to hear your approach and methods.”

Nyx and Prompto both stare at Ignis. Prompto thinks he should be at least a little bit affronted, but he’s not actually sure what to focus on. Nyx clears his throat, “You mean, how I talk to Prompto when he’s panicking?”

“Yes,” Ignis says, “that would be a useful place to start.”

“Well,” Nyx begins, glancing at Prompto. “I—all I do is ask him how he’s doing and what he needs, and go from what he says. Then he calms down fine on his own.” After a moment, he adds, “I give him space, too.”

Ignis pins a penetrating stare at Nyx, expression tight and focused. “That’s it?”   

“Yes, my lord,” Nyx demurs.

Ignis says, “You may call me by my name.”

Nyx doesn’t respond immediately. “Ignis,” he says and nothing more.

“Could you perhaps be more specific?” Ignis asks.

“Alright,” Nyx says with an edge to it. “For example, I would do this—Prompto, are you okay with me and Ignis discussing this here with you, or would you rather we not?”

Both of their attention swivels to him, and Prompto feels pinned by their eyes. “I, uh,” he says. “I don’t really need to be here.”

Before Ignis can even open his mouth, Nyx asks, “Why not?”

“Well, do you need me? To be part of this conversation.” At that, Nyx turns to look at Ignis and gestures palm flat and open towards Prompto.

Ignis stares at Prompto, frowning. “Oh,” he says softly.

“You could ask Prompto about what I’ve done that was most helpful,” Nyx says.

“Yes,” Ignis says. “I—yes.” He gathers himself, and he asks, “Prompto, what has Nyx done that you’ve found most helpful?”

Prompto can’t speak. He doesn’t quite know what just happened between Ignis and Nyx, and neither of their faces are telling. The words bubbling inside of him before when Ignis spoke vanish as quickly as warmth on a Niflheim night.

“Maybe we can start with just today?” Nyx suggests, after more than a few moments pass of Prompto’s silence. “Prompto, what helped you decide to come back here even after Ignis’—” he flashes a look at Ignis “—upsetting comments.” Ignis is grimly stoic at that.

“Um—but all you did was explain things. And, uh, I don’t think I would have listened to Ignis at that point.”

“It’s perfectly acceptable to need a break from a situation,” Ignis says solemnly.

“It definitely is. And I think,” he says, leaning his elbows on the table, “that we’ve already covered that misunderstanding. So let’s talk about the party.”

Ignis steeples his hands around his knee. Prompto doesn’t really know if he should say anything, but all his soulmate does is continue to wait, so he goes, “Okay,” he says. “What—I don’t know what to say.”

“You were upset at the party,” Ignis says abruptly. “I believed you were about to cry. And while you were upset when we left, by the time we arrived at the lavatory, you already seemed to be panicking. I’m still not quite certain what happened.”

“That’s a good place to start,” Nyx says.

Prompto thinks back to the emotions of that night, the events and timing of the evening blurry. The turn to fear and panic came suddenly, but his thoughts had been clearer before Ignis locked the door. “That’s because I wasn’t—panicked. Before. When we were still at the party,” because he hadn’t been, had he? “But… when we got into that elevator, and we were alone, I remembered… when I was alone with you when I was restrained.”

They wait, and when it’s clear Prompto’s not going to continue, Nyx says, “And that’s when you began to panic?”

Prompto rubs at his scar, but stops when he sees Ignis watching his hands. “Y-Yeah, I think so.”

“So when we went to the lavatory…” Ignis says. “Locking the door made it that much worse.”

He really wants to pick at his scab. “Yeah.”

“How,” Ignis says, voice deep and solemn, “can I avoid provoking a similar response? Or,” and he looks a little pained and sick, “would you rather never be alone with me?”

Prompto can’t answer that. He doesn’t know how to answer that.

But, now, he can glance at Nyx for guidance, who nods.

“I—I mean, _never_ seems a little bit… long… but maybe not now?” Prompto says and watches Ignis’ expression not actually change, but still reflect hurt.

He nods and says, “I understand,” and guilt twists up again.

“I’m sorry,” Prompto says reflexively, and both Nyx and Ignis flinch this time.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Ignis reassures quickly.

Prompto opens his mouth to—he doesn’t even know what. Argue. Apologize again. But Nyx interjects, “You really don’t need to apologize.”

So Prompto closes his mouth. The three of them sit in silence for a little while, watched by the three Crownsguards.

“I do apologize for not releasing you of the restraints,” Ignis says. “It was a grievous mistake that has done you a great deal of harm. So for however much it counts, I’m sorry.”

“It counts,” Prompto mutters, looking down at his hands. “And, I know you said I don’t need to apologize, but I feel like I do, for, um, the stalking. And,” he musters up some courage, “for assaulting you in the bathroom.”

“It’s quite alright,” Ignis says. It all feels so awkward. “I understand there were extenuating circumstances beyond your control.”

Prompto scowls at his lap a little. “Yeah, but I shouldn’t have done it anyway.”

“Well, your apology is accepted.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says. “Um, yours, too.”

They’re all quiet again. Their tea is gone and the food even colder. Prompto would still happily eat it, but he’s pretty sure eating cold food isn’t something nobles are supposed to do.

“I think,” Nyx says, rising, “that this might be enough for today.”

Prompto nods tiredly and Ignis murmurs agreement. Nyx waits for Prompto and they leave quickly. As they pass through the hallways, Prompto’s surprised to see that it’s been two hours.  

“All that,” he mutters, “and I didn’t even get to eat any of the food.”

Nyx snorts. “What a waste.”

“Can we stop at the kitchen for some food?” Prompto asks. “I kind of thought I’d be able to eat something at tea.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says, and they take the appropriate turn. “Are you okay?”

Prompto sighs. “I think so? We talked about a lot. More than I thought. And thank you,” he adds awkwardly, “that only went so well because you were there.”

They take several steps before Nyx replies, “You’re welcome.”

“And sorry that we dragged you into it,” Prompto adds.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nyx says and with a grin, “it was worth it, to see the Count actually stop and listen for once.”

Prompto chuckles weakly.

“But really,” Nyx says, voice pitched lower as they walk by people. “Don’t worry about it. I—” He pauses, considering. “You’ve grown on me,” he says, and Prompto smiles. Nyx smiles back, and continues, “And definitely don’t worry about Scientia—I think he’ll take what you said today to heart, and he’ll be trying to prove it to you. Give him a chance, and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

His arm bumps a little bit into Prompto, who can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, but the casual contact is reassuring.

“I think I can do that,” Prompto admits, already a little surprised that it’s even true. He’s willing to try. It may not be enough, but it’s miles away from where he was yesterday. And he thinks, for the first time, that maybe he can at least become friends with his soulmates someday.   


	10. The Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ambassador finally arrives. A couple people realize the same thing at once.

Two knocks on his door. Quick and solid. It’s likely for some report or another, but Clarus is still surprised that it’s Ulric.

“Your next report isn’t due until tomorrow,” Clarus says, checks the time. “Well. At least much later this afternoon. Has something happened?”

“Nothing urgent,” Ulric says, voice weary. “I just got off my shift. But my charge revealed important information.”

“Very well, then,” Clarus says, abandoning any hope of going home today. His wife and daughter wouldn’t be there, but his son would only feel his father’s absence from their home that much more acutely. “Report.”

“Prompto stated that the blinding light he used to escape from the medical bay was magic,” Ulric says. That’s not at all what Clarus expected, and he fears it shows on his face. Ulric’s own expression is not as impenetrable as it usually is—given the hour, he likely hasn’t slept yet. The information is too important to wait until morning proper.

“How does Prompto have magic?” He couldn’t be—could be somehow be related to the royal line of Lucis? Or of Tenebrae?

A horrifying thought occurred to Clarus. The bodies of the ancient Lucian kings were buried and sealed, but when has that ever stopped the Empire? They could have figured out how to break into them. And stolen samples…

“He said it was due to the injections of daemon blood the lab specimens receive,” Nyx reports. Relief waves over Clarus for a moment before Nyx’s words sink in, and horror freshly replaces it.

It’s difficult, when staring at the metallic and merciless mask of an MT to remember that they were once human. That, at some point, the human being they once were became… whatever they are now.

Clarus must remind himself that it is a process. And he should not be surprised that, like all processes, there are steps to the finished product. Of course there would be stages and steps in which different… symptoms… would manifest. 

Again, Clarus finds himself blindsided by the unique circumstances Prompto presents. He must do better.

As for now… “How common a side effect is this?”

“He said ‘not uncommon, but not common,’” Nyx repeats.

“And… how many people have escaped from the labs ?”

“Hundreds,” Nyx says.

Sweet Shiva have mercy.

“Come with me,” Clarus says. “We need to take this to the King.”

…

Reggie is in a meeting, but it’s only with Tellus and Cor. Clarus lets himself in and waves for Ulric to follow.

The man probably wants to go home. But this can’t wait.

“Regis,” he greets and nods to the others. “The Empire’s experiments with daemon blood are leaving their… _specimens_ … with some capacity of magic.” The other three tense and sit to attention in their seats. Good. They can’t ignore this. “Ulric here reported that Prompto confirmed as much himself. That many others who escaped from under the thumb of the Empire experienced.” He waits for that to sink in, and then adds the most troubling piece, “The estimated number is in the hundreds.”

Grim resolve settles and smooths the surprise out of their faces. “How did Ulric come by this information?” Tellus asks, pen and paper out for notes.

“I escorted him on an outing today,” Ulric says. “Some other members of the Kingsglaive were present, including Lieutenant Lazarus. They also heard this information.”

“But why did he share it?” Tellus presses. “He has been extraordinarily recalcitrant previously, and I was under the impression that the Kingsglaives were not to interrogate him.”

“He willingly revealed the information, Lord Scientia,” Ulric states, an edge to his voice that shouldn’t be there. Clarus shoots him a look. “He didn’t seem to think anything of it,” he says, tonelessly. “Baron Argentum shared the information through casual conversation.” 

“I see,” Tellus says, staring intently at Ulric. “How interesting.” 

“Some of their MagiTek soldiers are capable of magic,” Cor says. “We already know this.”

“We’ve never been able to confirm that,” Tellus says, leaving back in his chair.

“Well, it seems pretty clear now,” Cor says.

“Not necessarily,” Tellus continues. “What the MagiTeks use may still be Niflheim technology and preset magical grenades. The fact that there are people who escaped mid-process who experience these side effects does not suggest that was ever an intentional goal. Certainly, the materials and experiments the Empire was conducting contained many variables they did not account for.”

Cor huffs lightly. “Clearly not, considering.” It’s an ill time to smile, but the exaltation of the Empire falling—even without knowing quite yet what has replaced it—still lifts the corners of Clarus’ lips.

“But for hundreds of what amounts to either civilians or Resistance fighters to be capable of magic, with unknown capacities…” Reggie trails off.

“It indicates that the new regime might have a greater fighting capacity than we feared,” Clarus says. “And we have no idea if this Aranea is at all prepared to manage the entirety of the Empire. Or who of Iedolas’ inner circle still remains.” Regardless of whatever the new Empress’ intentions are, she is worthless to them if she cannot hold her seat.

Ulric clears his throat, lightly. “Permission to speak?”

“Granted,” Clarus says.

“Baron Argentum referred to the Empress by name,” Ulric says.

“Through familiarity or poor manners?” Tellus asks.

“Tellus,” Reggie admonishes.

“Someone still needs to speak to him about proper behavior in court life. If he won’t speak to my nephew still, then I am willing to instruct him. He clearly needs it.”

“I believe it was with familiarity, my lord,” Ulric says.

“Another mystery we need to solve,” Reggie says, “and an unwilling informant.”

“I may be able to learn more,” Clarus says, though he doubts his own words. The progress he’s been able to make so far crawls forward only inch by inch, and they have such little time.

“I thought your meetings with him were going poorly?” Cor asks, eyebrows raised.

“I haven’t been able to learn much,” Clarus admits. “I have been careful not to press him.”

“Ah, so your chosen interrogation method is small talk,” Cor says. “Effective.”

“Gaining trust is a process, Cor,” Clarus says. “And we can’t interrogate.”

“Well,” Tellus interjects. “We _could_. But we shouldn’t. My nephew would be rather displeased if we did.”

Cor’s eyes narrow at that, but he doesn’t speak. Clarus says, “So would my son, and Reggie’s son. We have to wait. Or otherwise see what the ambassador tells us when she arrives.” 

“It’s a woman, then?” Tellus asks. “We’ve confirmed that much at least?”

“Yes, but still no name.” Most of the Niflheim nobility were dead and gone for Iedolas’ paranoia even before the Resistance took power. Those that are not did not survive for so long for their stupidity; they’d be well into hiding. The ambassador must be one of the Empress’ inner circle, but so far, they still have no idea on who that groups consists of.

“Perhaps I should speak to Prompto,” Cor says, and everyone in the room turns to look at him with various degrees of incredulity on their faces.

“You?” Reggie asks.

“Think about it. Your boys are having trouble connecting with Prompto in a meaningful way. Clarus is having problems and can’t get past small talk. But Nyx here,” Cor gestures to the glaive, “gets Prompto hanging out with a bunch of Kingsglaives and casually mentioning the Empress and information. Perhaps the pressure of speaking to his soulmates and bond family is a hindrance?”

“What would you know about soul bonds, Leonis?” Tellus asks lightly. Cor doesn’t frown or scowl exactly, but he focuses on Tellus with an intensity that reveals the impact of the words.

“Enough,” Regis orders immediately. “Tellus, that was inappropriate.”

“It’s fine,” Cor says, the creases smoothed out on his face and posture much too relaxed. “I am sure Tellus is only lashing out because of his own marital problems. If I heard correctly from the yelling last night, it sounded as if you and your _own_ soulmate,” Cor isn’t a dramatic fucker, except for when he’s being petty, “can’t satisfy each other. A rather sorry state of affairs, isn’t that?”

“ _Cor_ ,” Regis snaps. Tellus face is red with rage and embarrassment, but he says nothing. Huh. The situation with his soulmate must be upsetting him. Rude or not, Clarus should check in with him later.

“Forgive me, Regis,” Cor says. “As I was saying before the unnecessary interruption, I think it might be beneficial if I speak to Prompto.”

“He’s got a point. Although,” Clarus says, turn back around to address Ulric. “Ulric. You know him best, at this point. Do you think Cor should speak to Prompto? Or should we leave it to you?”

Ulric only minutely shows signs that he’s startled at being addressed. “You can leave it to me,” Ulric says. “But I think Captain Leonis’ logic is sound. It might be helpful to have someone new speak to Baron Argentum." 

“Very well. Cor, speak to the boy when you have a chance,” Regis orders. “Preferably before the ambassador shows up and gets a hold of him. We’ve got a time limit, after all.”

Clarus needs to stay to further discuss the issue with Regis, but both Cor and Tellus stand up. Ulric is almost already gone, but before he does, Clarus says to him, “And Ulric—good work.”

Ulric mutters, “Of course, my lord.” The man looks tired and wane. Clarus worries to himself for a moment, decides that he can check in on the cause of _that_ later, and dismisses him.

…

The kid doesn’t stay still. Bad form for an assassin. How did he tolerate the hours necessary for a sniper to wait for his target to appear?

Maybe it’s the circumstances. Prompto’s time in Lucis certainly hasn’t been without its stresses. Cor knows himself well enough to know that he would not be able to put up even a pretense of getting along with his captors were it him.

They’ve asked a lot of the kid. It’s good that he’s found at least something resembling a friend in Ulric. 

It’s been days since Cor suggested he find a time to talk to Prompto—the circumstances in which they meet are important. He doesn’t want to make the same mistakes as Clarus, so he asked Ulric to advise him on an appropriate time after the meeting.

“He was relaxed with me and the other glaives,” Nyx said. “Perhaps join us next time? It would be a good way to introduce you.”

“Just let me know when,” Cor said, and now that time was here on the day that the ambassador is planned to arrive and they need to keep Prompto occupied anyway.

He hasn’t noticed Cor standing alongside him, distracted as he is with Ulric and Drautos training. The Kingsglaive Captain is going pretty hard on Ulric—perhaps this training session was part of how Ulric even convinced the Captain into letting Prompto spectate in the first place?

That would be just like Titus.

There are nobles milling about, most with only the flimsiest of reasons to be present. Some obviously admire the men training (not a bad thing, by any means--it usually means more donations to the Kingsglaives and Crownsguard), but others, the brave and the stupid, have their eye on Prompto. Due to Nyx’s preoccupation, some other Glaives are spectating, not so subtly guarding their newest Baron. Cor nods over to Arra and Lazarus when they spot him. 

He’d chat with them, normally, offer to train with them too—but he’s here to check in with Prompto.

Clarus has had limited success in connecting with Prompto. Their meetings have been stilted and superficial since Prompto’s refusal to go to an arranged meeting with Ignis. Cor believes that Clarus is too fundamentally used to dealing with his own son and bond sons. And he’s good at that, with years of familiarity and respect to work with.

But Prompto is, of course, different. The fact that he refused the suggestion of a meeting with Ignis was a surprise to Clarus and Regis. The fact that Prompto then set up a meeting on his own was only a greater surprise. Ignis’ own, likely highly edited, account of the meeting presents at least a positive end note, but Cor had one hell of a time making sure that the guards and staff wouldn’t gossip.

And there was certainly much for them to gossip about. The people that were present at that particular meeting were all too eager to share their hot, new information. Cor enticed them to talk, and then threatened them to silence with a court marshal and dishonorable discharge. For the staff, he threatened immediate firing and having their name put on blacklists all around the city. And that’s only if, Cor told them, if he didn’t have them charged for treason. As Prompto’s and Ignis’ meeting had to do entirely with their status as soulmate, discussing the information is tantamount to sharing a state secret. 

Cor alleviated at least some of the neverending gossip circulating around about their guest. It’s barely a drop in the gushing river that is the words of nobles--Prompto is much too much an object of fascination and rumors to be anything else. Especially since he confirmed that it was he who assassinated the Emperor.

That had been a good move, intentional or not, for Prompto. His involvement in overthrowing the Emperor cleanly explained why Lucis was hosting him, why they gave him a title, and spurred the growth of rumors away from any scandalous ideas about soulbonds. With a drop of political acumen, Prompto could easily become a beloved hero in the imagination of the Lucian nobility.

But the kid clearly has none of the sort. It eases some concern that he would try to leverage his soulbonds to political advantage, for some unknown goal for the new Empress, but neither Cor nor Clarus suspect him capable of it.

Which leaves other, just as severe concerns, to ensure Prompto is protected from the political machinations of others.

And to prevent him from feeling as if they are maneuvering him politically, and on this point, Cor disagrees wholeheartedly with Clarus--they _are_ using him politically. The fact that it doubles up as protecting him is frosting on the cake. They needed Prompto to have a legitimate reason and standing to stay protected in Lucis, so they went ahead and did it.

He can’t forget that, if he wants to have any success talking to the boy now.

Cor waits for an opportunity, which he’s given, when a nobleman of limited influence situates himself next to Prompto, introduces himself, and attempts to steamroll the boy into accepting a dinner invitation.

Whoever instructed Prompto to keep quiet whenever questioned did well--the man asks about the Empress, his opinion on the Empire, if the MagiTek soldiers are going to be continued to be deployed, and more, and Prompto murmurs non-committedly every time.

But he doesn’t leave. Prompto stands there, the noble insisting that the ‘esteemed Assassin of Niflheim and Baron Argentum’ joins him for dinner to the point where Prompto flounders on his repetition of no. 

“Baron Argentum,” Cor says, stepping in. Both Prompto and the noble turn to face him, and Cor gives a perfunctory nod to them both. “I’ve been looking for you. Come with me.”

Relief and fear are an odd combination, but Cor’s worked with worse, and the kid follows along willingly enough. Cor’s office is nearby the training grounds, doesn’t even involve a flight of stairs, and is visible from the training ground.

“You want the door open or close?” Cor asks the kid as they go inside, who tenses at the choice.

The kid’s eyes dart around the room, fear creeping up over whatever relief he had from getting away from the pushy noble. “I don’t know who you are?" 

“Cor Leonis,” Cor says. He doesn’t stick out his hand because Niffs don’t do that. Something about keeping their hands warm. “Marshall of the Crownsguards. I was hoping for a private conversation with you, but I can grab a Kingsglaive to hold up the wall if it would make you feel better.”

The kid does an impression of a baby spiracorn in headlights and doesn’t respond one way or another, so Cor goes to grab Luche. “You know him, right?” Cor asks, and Prompto nods. He looks puzzled, not even a hope for hiding his emotions anytime soon, but he does recognize the glaive. “Great. Luche, you mind being decorative for a bit?”

“Not at all, sir,” Luche says, moving to do just that.

“Have a seat,” Cor instructs to Prompto, who does that. Cor sits on the second chair on the same side of the desk--he wants to keep this casual, and having a big old desk in the middle is never condusive for that. “You’re expected to be leaving Lucis soon.”

The kid nods a bit tentatively and says nothing. “You got any plans on what you want to do when you go back home?”

“Um,” Prompto says, glancing at Luche for a second. “I, um. I owe Shiva an offering. I was going to do that.”

That’s… not what Cor was expecting. “Shiva? Isn’t that an unusual choice for a resident of Niflheim?”

“No?” Prompto says, “Why would it be?”

“The Empire doesn’t have the best track record with the Glacian,” Cor says, realizing his mistake as he says it. “Ah, but the Empire isn’t the Resistance.” Well, not until recently.

The kid smiles a bit. “Right.” 

“What do you plan on offering?” Cor asks, when it’s clear the kid doesn’t plan on saying more.

Prompto shrugs. “I’m not sure yet. It depends.”

“When I make offerings,” Cor begins, “I always choose something particular to that being.” He pauses, and Prompto still says nothing, “Are customs surrounding offerings different in Niflheim?”

 “Sort of,” Prompto says. “It’s gotta be something the astral likes, but the Empire destroyed most of the shrines, so we make do with whatever we can wherever we can. Shiva’s shrine has been lost for a while…”

[“Shiva is the patroness of peace,” Cor muses. “I usually leave weapons for Gilgamesh. Which is convenient, but won’t work for Shiva.”](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/165811470037/happy-b-day-seladorie-this-two-page-spread-is)

[“Gilgamesh?” Prompto asks.](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/165811470037/happy-b-day-seladorie-this-two-page-spread-is)

[“A minor deity,” Cor says. “Or a spirit. Who really knows? When I was young and stupid, I made a contract with him.” ](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/165811470037/happy-b-day-seladorie-this-two-page-spread-is)

Prompto’s eyebrows raise. “ _You_ have a contract with a deity?” he asks. “What’s it like?”

“You’ve heard of contracts?” Cor asks. “It’s not as exciting as it might sound. I can summon Gilgamesh in times of dire need.” And Gilgamesh is picky about what constitutes ‘dire need’; Cor barely ever sees him because he’s usually about to die before he shows up. He frowns, “If you’re going to try to make an offering to get a contract, I wouldn’t recommend it. Gil demands a lot, and he’s not even an astral.” It’s hard to reason with something that has inhuman logic. And Cor is fairly certain that Gilgamesh _used_ to be human at some point or another.

Regis has a horrific time with Bahamut. Cor can’t even begin to understand how he deals with it. Titan’s a bit steadier, from what Clarus has said, but Weskham had--and still has--one hell of a time with Leviathan all those years ago.

Ramuh, at least, has the loosest definition of ‘dire need’ of any of them, coming to aid Cid at even the slightest thing.

Cor has not, and never will, entirely let go of his teenagerish belief that the reason those two got along so well is their mutual old man grouchiness.

It’s a unique bond, and Cor will never grow too old to mock Cid for it.

Prompto peers at him, leaning forward, surprise flittering across his face. “Wait, _Cor_ Leonis? You mean Cor the Immortal?”

“Yes, that’s me,” he says, with a moment’s hesitation, worried suddenly if Prompto might have a negative association with his prowess on the battlefield. Cor is fairly certain he never encountered any Resistance fighters while on Niflheim soil. They wouldn’t have any reason to be there, would they?

Prompto doesn’t look angry, either. Not at all, in fact. He’s smiling. 

( _Take_ that, _Tellus_ , Cor thinks.) 

“We got a hundred people out of Hauxel Fortress because of information you gave one of our agents,” Prompto says, a big, victorious grin still on his face. “Your guys warned us to stay away from where you were going to attack, and we used it as a distraction to get people out.”

Oh, Cor remembers that battle. In the midst of planning, a waif of a kid snuck around the edges of their camp, skinny and covered in bruises. One of his men recognized the kid as part of the Resistance, and told the kid to get his people and scram.

Evidently, they did not scram. They did the opposite of scram.

A sudden and chilling thought occurs. “That agent wasn’t _you_ , was it?”

The smile drops, and the kid looks nervous. “No—no, it wasn’t me. Just another kid.”

It’s been years, but now that he’s drawn the connection between Prompto and the kid, they do look eerily similar. “It’s fine if you were. It doesn’t really matter at this point.”

“It wasn’t me,” Prompto says firmly. 

Well, now Cor’s just gone and ruined his chance. Unless, if he can get the boy back on track. “How many did you say you got out?” 

Yeah, the kid brightens again. Damn. This is _easy_. He’ll have to make fun of Clarus. “We got out about a hundred, which is pretty much an entire--” the kid’s about to say something and obviously doesn’t. He’ll need to work on that. “Um. MagiTek squad, but these weren’t…” The kid squints. He says a word in Gralean, and then says in Lucian, “I guess just MagiTeks. We have a lot more words for them. There are different kinds.”

Of course there are different kinds, by the kid must mean something different than just their skill level and weapons. “These weren’t MagiTeks?”

“No, they on a different track--they were given specific treatments to make them more daemonic, but more controllable,” Prompto says. Cor sees Luche barely suppress a shudder from by the door.

Cor considers his reactions, and says with calm measure, “I’m glad we were able to help.”

The kid grins crookedly, so pleased over something that never should have happened in the first place. That children never should have had to deal with. That was eight years ago, wasn’t it? The kid would have been only eleven or twelve then.

He hopes the Infernian is having fun with the Emperor. If anyone deserves it, it’s him.

“Insomnia must be quite different from Niflheim,” Cor says, watching Prompto’s reaction carefully. The kid just nods, so he continues, “Especially given your circumstances. Being expected to get along with three different soulmates must be tiresome.”

Prompto stiffens, smile dropped from his face, replaced by a caught, wide-eyed look. Were they not in his office, Cor would expect that he might be planning to flee. After a moment, the kid makes himself relax a bit, and cagily says, “A bit, yeah.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Cor says, hoping this will work. “I don’t have any soulmates personally.”

The kid perks up at that, and while Cor hoped that would alleviate some of the pressure on Prompto--of the expectations that you _have_ to have soulmates and love them--he looks more relieved about that than he expected. “You don’t?” 

“No,” Cor says. “But I find any relationships require work, soulmates or no.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, a smile edging in. “That’s what my sister says, too. She also doesn’t have any soulmates.”

A sister? Did they know that he has a sister? “Sounds like a smart girl,” Cor says. “What’s her name?”

Prompto opens his mouth, blithely, to answer, but then suddenly he snaps it shut. He looks perplexed, staring off into the distance of Cor’s office. “Have I not mentioned that before?”

“I don’t believe you have,” Cor says, and he hasn’t, as far as he knows. But Luche clears his throat from the wall.

“Baron Argentum, you mentioned you have a sister when in our company a few nights ago.”

The kid’s face is scrunching up. “But I didn’t... I didn’t say her _name…_ ”

A suspicion sneaks up on Cor, gripping him with tight apprehension. “Why? What’s your sister’s name?” 

And the goddamned kid opens his mouth and says, “Aranea,” and Cor curses the Astrals and their twisted sense of humor, just when the door slams open and the Prince comes charging in.

Well, _another_ Prince comes charging in because they’ve evidently had two here this entire fucking time.

And their Prince says, breathlessly, to Cor and Prompto who are both on their feet and ready, and Luche still by the wall with a weapon materialized, “We should get _married_.”

…

Noctis stands by his father’s throne, back as straight as he can make it. It’s _already_ sore, but his entire appearance must be as prominent as befits his rank for when the ambassador enters. His goal right now is to demonstrate Lucis’ strength and future by way of his entire existence. Fuck, even the lining of his suit has a repeating pattern of their family’s insignia. No one will even be able to _see_ that. The only way the suit could be fancier is if the tailors had thread literal gold into it.

And he’s not convinced it doesn’t. The embroidery on his suit pocket is suspiciously shiny and cool to touch.

Everyone’s completely decked out. Medals, sashes, some of the Council even broke out the old, traditional _robes_ , claiming it was more appropriate for a Niflheim dignitary, and it would be more likely to impress them.

Noctis and his father aren’t too sure about that—the only thing they know about the ambassador now is that it’s a woman who was a member of the Resistance. Her background is unknown (if it’s similar to Prompto’s, they certainly won’t be needing the robes or the glitz) as well as her role in the resistance.

They wait in silence while the ambassador is greeted in the Citadel and guided to the throne room. An actual meeting for negotiations will likely have to wait, so that the ambassador and her entourage will have some time to rest. With stakes like these, though, the King Himself will walk the ambassador to her quarters for her stay.

They can’t afford for this to go poorly.

Lucis will never have an opportunity like this again.

The doors open, and the herald announces, “Presenting Grand Duchess Tinia Nitidus, Ambassador of Niflheim, and—” he pauses, and clears his throat. “And her guards, um…” Much quieter, but it’s no good with no other noise in the large chamber, “are you sure this is correct?”

The ambassador nods, and the herald reads out more loudly, “Bubbles and Blanket!”

MTs don’t have names. They have serial numbers, black, viscous daemon blood, and no mercy.

Bubbles and Blanket are both still in their full-body, metal armor. Their faces aren’t visible, and Noctis couldn’t for the life of him tell which is which. They’re both too tall for normal humans, and their steps are in unison after the ambassador.

The ambassador herself could hardly be more dissimilar in appearance compared to her guards. She’s short, at least half a foot less than Noctis, round, and dark-skinned with some scars on her face. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen someone from Niflheim who wasn’t pale and blond before.

She bows, and so do the MTs, in eerie unison. He supposes that MTs make up most of the Niflheim military force, but knowing where they come from and how they’re made, Noctis is a little surprised they’re accompanying someone from the Resistance.

_Well, what else would they do with them? Get rid of them?_ he thinks, chiding himself. What _were_ they going to do with their MTs? Were they still even people after everything that’s been done to them?

Nitidus straightens, and there’s no hint on her face about how this first meeting is about to go. Noctis wonders where the Empress found her; Nitidus is definitely not a noble family of Niflheim, and he’s never heard of her before. King Regis stands up, and says, “Welcome, Ambassador Nitidus. We’ve eagerly awaited your arrival. Lucis has high hopes for peaceful relations with the new regime of Niflheim.”

Nitidus doesn’t reply immediately. She does open her mouth, face an impassive mask, but her eyes scan the full Council assembly, as well as Noctis, Ignis, and Gladio. Bizarrely, a crease appears on her forehead, and she says, “We do as well. Where is Prompto?”

_Prompto_. She called him by his name. Nitidus must actually _know_ him.

And that’s a sign of familiarity, isn’t it? Noctis wonders, trying to remember Niflheim’s customs on name usage. It’s not like in Lucis, where you can offend by using a person’s given name too soon in the acquaintance. He can’t recall, and desperately wishes to be able to ask Iggy, but the way she said it made it sound familiar. Even personal. 

That might answer the question they’ve been long asking. Lucis had received no reply about Prompto when they sent the official and courteous notification that they had Prompto in their custody. They had hoped that Niflheim’s response would give them an idea of where Prompto stood in his home country and within the Resistance, but the response had been the standard, “Our Ambassador will negotiate for his return.” They didn’t say anything helpful, not even a desire to have him back in one piece by specifying that it be a _safe_ return, but perhaps they meant for the ambiguity to prevent Lucis from, well. Acting like Niflheim does with _their_ prisoners.

“We were not aware your ladyship wished for Baron Prompto Argentum to join us,” Clarus says. He’s going to say more, and it’s obvious what it’s going to be about—that Prompto’s been an honored guest and how well they’ve treated him, but Clarus stops short as Nitidus startles. 

“ _Baron_?” Nitidus demands. “Why is he a _baron_?”

_Shit_ , Noctis thinks. There’s a dawning anger on the ambassador’s face, and before anyone can answer, she continues, “Am I to understand that you made your prisoner accept a Lucian title, _binding_ him in fealty to you and your throne?” Her accent comes out more in her anger, husky and forceful with a slight rolling of the _r_ ’s. But it sounds different than Prompto’s. Thicker, perhaps. Maybe she isn’t from Gralea?

Voice pitched low and thunderous, she says, “You forced the Empress’ _brother_ into a _title_?”

_Fuck_.

There’s not really a good way to respond to that, and Noctis barely resists the urge to seek his father’s expression for guidance. His father must be taking that news impassively. His political mask is too good for anything else.

As for Noctis, he struggles to hide his own shock, and hopes Ignis and Gladio have better success. They had _no idea_ that—that Prompto is the Empress’ _brother_ , and oh fuck Noctis hopes Titan reaches out from the eos and just ends it now because that means he’s a _Prince_.

Prompto is a Prince. No, _the_ Prince. Of Niflheim.

Oh, sweet Shiva.

“Oh, the title is merely honorary,” Ignis says, all confidence and reassurance. “It was by no means intended to insult the Empire, or an attempt to complicate peace negotiations.”

Oh, _gods_ , what an excellent save. Noctis definitely needs to give Ignis a blowjob later. If Gladio doesn’t claim Iggy first, of course. No, wait—they should team up on Iggy. That’d be fun.

“Count Scientia is correct,” his father says. Nitidus narrows her eyes at him. “It is customary to honor such important guests with a ceremonial title, and it is that, and nothing more.” It certainly would be a custom _now_. This is really how traditions get started. Being forced to back up your lies. “ We had no intention to cause offense. We welcome the new regime’s outreach for peace, as it is a mutual goal.”

The suspicion on Nitidus’ face smooths away. She might not completely believe them, but it doesn’t really matter at this point. They’ve already stated to have no political claim to Prompto, which would have been their main concern if the situation had been reversed. “I wish to see him as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” his father says, and Noctis steps forward.

“I’ll get him, Lady Ambassador,” he says, and rushes out of the throne room as quickly as he can without seeming like he’s rushing. When he’s clear of the doors and out of sight, he runs, with Gladio and Iggy following him. 

He runs down the stairs, leaping down two at a time, his destination near the training grounds. He passes by pillars and training recruits and comes to the closed door of Cor’s office. But it’s not locked, so Noctis swings it open. There’s a flash to the side where a glaive is standing, already armed, but Noctis focuses on Cor and Prompto. Both of them standing, ready to draw weapons, and looking fairly surprised at Noctis’ arrival. 

“We should get married,” Noctis says breathlessly to Prompto, who looks at Cor. “Not him! You! Prompto! We should get married!”

A bit awkwardly, Prompto laughs, a crooked smile uneasily settling on his face. “What are you talking about?”

Noctis opens his mouth to explain himself, and exactly why this is really the most brilliant idea he’s ever had, but Gladio steps further into the room and interjects, “Okay, so Prince Charmless here just skipped about ten steps at least in even _suggesting_ this idea, but he does have a point.”

Ignis, from the doorway, mutters, “Didn’t you pay _any_ attention at all to my etiquette lessons?”

“Oh, was that, uh, was that a joke?” Prompto asks, eyes darting around the room and looking more and more trapped. Shit. “I-I’m not really familiar with Lucian humor yet.”

“It is not an example of Lucian humor,” Cor says. “Let’s all sit down, and His Highness can explain his actions.”

A bit of understanding of how absurd Noctis’ outburst was makes him back down a little. But he doesn’t sit down, and neither does anyone else. “The Ambassador is here,” Noctis tells Prompto. “She said you’re the Empress’ _brother_. That you’re the Prince of Niflheim. Why didn’t you ever tell us that? We’re both Princes, and soulmates—we should get married and seal the peace treaty!”

Prompto looks stunned. Cor and the glaive (Lazarus--Noctis only knows him because he’s pale and blond and while technically from Tenebrae, he _looks_ like he’s from Niflheim) don’t look any less so. 

“Oh, Noctis,” Ignis sighs.

The expression of Prompto’s face slides from confused but open to closed off, and Noctis tries to explain, “And we get along! We like spending time together!” but to no avail. Scrambling, he says, “No, I didn’t mean—sorry, I didn’t mean to say that’s the _only_ reason to get married, but I was thinking like a politician.”

Prompto looks skeptical, but not shut down. Noctis can work with that, but he doesn’t have to, because Iggy cuts in.

“When two people of political importance are also soulmates,” he says. “Often times they are arranged to be married, for the dual benefit of bringing soulmates together and creating treaties between their affiliation. As you and Noctis are soulmates and get along quite well, Noctis leapt to the conclusion that the two of you should marry once the Ambassador revealed your title.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. Noctis can’t really read his expression now. “Are—are Princes allowed to marry each other?”

“Yeah,” Gladio says. “Prince Ligula of Lucis and Lord Furca of Duscae. Since they were both titled, neither of them wanted to be shunted into the position of Bonded.”

“Oh,” Prompto says softly.

“Regardless, we were tasked in bringing Prompto to the throne room to meet the ambassador,” Ignis says. “Surely this conversation can wait for a more appropriate time. I’m certain that Prompto and Ambassador Nitidus have much to discuss on their own.”

Prompto jumps up out of his seat. “Tinia’s here?” he exclaims. “She’s _here_? She’s the ambassador?”

“Lady Tinia Nitidus, yes,” Ignis confirms. “You two are acquainted already, then?”

“Yeah—Yeah,” Prompto says, voice a bit strangled. “Where is she?”

“The throne room,” Ignis says, “she’s waiting for you.”

Noctis has to dodge out of the way to avoid getting an elbow in his chest while Prompto runs out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tellus = Latin for "earth." His name is Earth Science, like how his nephew is Fire Science.
> 
> Also! She5los, who's my friend and beta for this fic, wrote a side story herself for this fic! It's read best after this chapter, so here's the link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12029571
> 
> Give her some love and leave a comment--she's contributed SO MUCH to this fic. It wouldn't be nearly as good without her.


	11. The Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto more or less acclimates to being the Prince of Niflheim. And certain conversations happen after a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've changed the rating and added a tag :)

Clarus is waiting for Prompto right before the throne room, Luche following him close behind. “We took her to her rooms for her stay,” he tells him. “Come, I’ll show you where,” and he walks with a measured pace which makes Prompto twitchy and anxious.

He forces himself to match Clarus’ pace, even though he keeps finding himself a little bit in front of him several times. Tinia is _here_ , though, he can’t ruin this.

The room they go to is not far from his own. The three of them take the elevator, and the burn of embarrassment from the… events at the party simmers a little less than before. Time passes excruciatingly slow, the memories practically suffocating him, but he thinks of Tinia.

The _ding_ sounds, the doors slide open, and Prompto bounces on his heels waiting for Clarus. He’s not slow, but he’s too slow.

“It’s the room left of yours,” Clarus says, and Prompto’s gone.

“Baron Argentum, wait a moment,” Lazarus says, running after him. Prompto doesn’t listen.

He gets to the door left of his. Heart in his throat, he knocks on the door.

“Come in,” says Tinia’s voice.

He opens the door.

“Prompto,” says Tinia, staring at him, face relaxing into warmth and welcome. Tinia is a good deal shorter than Prompto, fat and glowing and beautiful, happier and more relaxed than Prompto’s ever seen her. The Lucian sun has darkened her already dark skin that marked her in Niflheim as a member of Nilfheim’s indigenous community and as other. Prompto lets out a noise that might be a sob, and rushes into her arms.

“Sweetie,” Tinia says, Gralean falling sweetly from her lips. “What’s happened to you?”

“I—” he says, gasping out the Lucian personal pronoun, forgetting for just a moment that now he can freely speak Gralean. He tries to get out the words, but the first sob releases the dam, and he can’t speak. Tinia pulls him closer, and they slide down to the floor leaning on each other.

He weeps, the sobs wracking his body and he no longer tries to speak. Tinia is smoothing a hand up and down his back, speaking soft reassurances in Gralean. It makes Prompto cry harder, to hear Tinia’s familiar, warm, loving voice murmur comfort.

“Glaive,” she says above his head in Lucian. “You may go.”

Right. Luche followed him. He almost forgot, so used to constant surveillance.

Speaking of, he needs to warn her that the rooms all have video surveillance. And that they’ve probably bugged her room, too. Prompto pulls away, trying to pull himself together enough, but she runs her fingers through his head. “It’s okay,” she says in their mother tongue. “We’ve swept for bugs and cameras. Cry however much you want.”

“Lady Ambassador,” says Luche from the doorway. “My orders are to accompany and guard Baron Argentum.”

“Prince Prompto,” TInia corrects coldly. The sobs that were so loud and contorted Prompto’s entire body begin to quiet. He almost says, _Luche is alright_ or _He and the glaives have been good to me_ but the idea that he’ll be free of their constant presence—their constant supervision, which he could never quite forget was to both protect and control him—silences him. “Where did ‘Argentum’ come from anyway?”

Luche clears his throat. “It’s the name of the barony. Of the land. Your Ladyship.”

There’s a silence, and Prompto’s face is still pressed into Tinia’s soft, warm shoulder, but he sees the expression on her face clearly within his mind’s eye. Her gaze is flat, incredulous, and unimpressed, and powerful enough to make even the rowdiest and forceful of Resistance members back down. “You are dismissed. Tell your commanding officer that the Empire is taking over Prince Prompto’s detail.”

A pause. “Yes, my lady.” The door opens and closes, and Luche is gone.

And Prompto, despite himself, relaxes. To the point where he’s practically lying on Tinia’s lap, like he used to, when he was smaller. He’s too big for her lap now, but they make it work.

Prompto sniffs. His eyes are sore, and his nose is clogged, and his throat is tight, but he’s too happy that TInia is here. He can’t bring himself to speak yet.

But he has so many questions.

“Tinia,” he gets out, maybe. He’s not sure how understandable he is through his remaining gasps and sobs. “Tinia, I—”

“What’s happened to you?” she asks softly, her hand smoothing still through his hair.

It’s still a little while before Prompto can answer. Tinia pulls out a handkerchief from somewhere and hands it to him so he can blow his nose a couple of times. His face feels dripping and puffy, and he hates it, but his cries lessen and quiets.

“I have more than one soulmate,” Prompto says, voice thick. His nose won’t stop clogging.

“I know that, sweetie,” Tinia says after he doesn’t continue. “One of them is that Ignis boy. He was at the throne room.”

“Another one is the Prince,” Prompto says, face pressed into Tinia’s side.

“Oh,” she says. “ _Oh_.”

“The last one is Gladio Amicitia,” Prompto says, voice toneless and resigned. “I tried to recon on Ignis and come back, but I got caught, and then they wouldn’t let me go. They put restraints on me, but I got away, but I was so hurt—I had to come back or I was gonna die.”

Her hand stills. “What?” she says faintly.

“I was injured,” he says, using the specific Gralean word for _injured_ that also means _fatal_. “It was infected. I was going to die. The Kingsglaive found me and brought me back, and I let them.”

“That’s okay, sweetie,” Tinia says. “That’s okay.”

“They wouldn’t let me go,” he says again. “Because I was the soulmate of the Prince, and the Shield, and the Advisor, and they said they wanted to keep me _safe_. _Safe_. Like giving me a title. They made me _kneel_ to the King, Tinia.”

“Oh, baby,” she says. She rubs the back of his neck. “It’s okay.”

“I’ve fucked up so badly,” Prompto tells her. “I never should have come here.”

Some moments go by while she strokes his hair. “Are your soulmates really so terrible?”

He sniffles, and he could sit up by now—he’s calmed down enough—but he doesn’t want to leave Tinia’s embrace. “No. They’re alright. Noctis and Gladio are, anyway.”

Prompto should sit up. Not being able to see Tinia’s face isn’t helping. “And Ignis?”

“I—” Prompto starts. “It’s not his fault, but—I was so scared, Tinia. He was with me when I was restrained and I—I just got so fucking scared.”

And he tells her, haltingly, about his fear. About running; nearly dying; his captivity; the title and the party; Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis.

And Nyx.

At the end of it, he falls silent, drained and unwilling to move. When Tinia speaks, it’s slow and soft. “When we saw you on TV, for the Lucian broadcasts, we took that as a sign that they couldn’t catch you. We waited for a message from you, but we didn’t want to interfere and ruin your plans.”

“I couldn’t get outside the wall,” Prompto mumbles. “And I couldn’t send a message from inside Insomnia.”

She sighs. “We should have thought of that. We’ve—Aranea recently found the databases detailing information about the wall around Insomnia, and it’s quite… powerful.”

“So you didn’t know they had me?” he asks.

“We received a message from their runners a while after that,” she says, “saying that they had you, trying to figure out what you mean to us. We couldn’t tell them because we couldn’t know what they would do.”

Prompto understands that. If the King had been anything like the Emperor, Prompto’s soulbonds wouldn’t have protected him.   

“I thought Aranea abandoned me,” Prompto says. “Did she—”

“No!” Tinia exclaims immediately, pulling him up. “No, she didn’t,” she repeats, looking him in the eyes. “Listen to me, _Proshka_. Aranya would _never_ abandon you. We didn’t know to send help when it was an option, but we shouldn’t have sent you alone, and we know so much more about running an Empire than we did just months ago. Everything could have been done better. We should have done it better.” She wipes away the tears already falling from Prompto’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I should have pushed to come sooner. I should have hurried us more.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, painful happiness overwhelming him at the sight of Tinia’s earnest face and her words, he loses himself to his emotions once again.

“We made so many mistakes,” Tinia says, while he cries. “I’m so sorry. I am so sorry…” And she’s crying too.

...

Much later, when they’ve finally cried themselves out and washed up, they lie on the oversized bed in the room and Prompto meets the MTs.

“I’m confused,” Prompto says, looking at the three MagiTek units posted about the room. They were in the adjoining suite, to give them privacy, but now they were there to guard both the Ambassador. And the Prince.

Prompto still needs to ask about that. He knew better than the deny or question it when Noctis had run into Cor’s office with his marriage proposal, but Prompto absolutely is not a Prince. At least, not when he left Niflheim, he wasn’t.

“That’s Blanket,” Tinia says, pointing to the MT closest to them. “That’s Bubbles,” to the one standing by the windows, “and that’s ZRX-7534,” she finishes, pointing to the one by the door. “I call him ZRX, though, for short.”

“And… you’re rehabilitating them,” Prompto wonders.

“These three have made a lot of progress already,” Tinia says, pride sneaking into her voice. “Some of the first to choose their own names.”

“Why ZRX-7534, though?” Prompto could understand Blanket. And even Bubbles. It’s a comfort thing. But ZRX-7534 isn’t even a word.

“ZRX-7534 is the largest star in the Carbuncle constellation,” ZRX-7534 reports, voice absent of inflection and emotion. “I find the constellation most aesthetically pleasing of all of the constellations.”

“I told them to pick whatever names they wanted,” Tinia says. “He likes the stars.”

Prompto expects the MT to deny that; to deny that he has a personal preference for anything, but it doesn’t come.

“So they have personal preferences?” he asks.

“Why don’t you ask them?” Tinia suggests.

“Um, yeah,” he says. “So, ZRX, the Carbuncle constellation is your favorite?”

“It has a resemblance to a fennec fox,” says ZRX-7534.

“Would you like to tell us why you chose that as a name for yourself?” Tinia asks gently.

“It,” the MT says, and stops. “It has a resemblance to a fennec fox,” he repeats. “There were foxes around the base I was stationed at. I would feed them.”

“You fed them?” Prompto asks, surprised, and the MT shifts, a little bit.

“I had no direct orders regarding the foxes,” ZRX-7534 states.

“That’s amazing,” Prompto says. He had escaped—been rescued by Aranea—early in the process. He never got any wiring, or ports, or any of the horrific additions that these MTs had gotten that made them something other than human. He never thought an MT could like something as simple as _foxes_. “That’s a great name.”

“Thank you,” the MT states, not quite as tonelessly as before. It sounds awkward, with a little hesitation.

“Tinia, why—I mean, should you really have them as guards?” Prompto asks. “Keep them working as MTs?”

“Rehabilitation is a long, slow process,” Tinia says. “We can’t give them too many choices right away. You should have seen them when we tried to give them _food_ for the first time.”

“They’re eating food now?” Prompto says. “What about their ports?”

“Most of them aren’t using them anymore,” Tinia says. “Some of them haven’t adjusted well, so they’re still using them for some nutrition, but we’ve got everyone trying juice and protein bars at the very least. Blanket, here,” Tinia says a bit louder and warmer. “He recently tried actual meat.”

“I did,” says the MT called Blanket. He was the only one who took off his helmet. His eyes were a glowing, daemonic red, his skin too pale and the wiring visible where it’s thinnest, and hair limp, but his face uncomfortably resembles Prompto’s. “It was flavorful. And odd.”

“Good for you, buddy,” Prompto says earnestly.

They lie back, relaxing, and Prompto wants to ask about the Prince thing, but everything about Tinia’s whole being is so much happier than he’s ever seen her before, so instead he asks, “What’s happened to you?”

She leans back a little bit to look at him. “What do you mean? Nothing’s happened to me. I’m fine.”

“I know, I mean,” Prompto waves a hand vaguely at her face. “You seem… happy.”

Tinia stares at him for a moment, confusion flooding her face, before it clears like the sun parting the clouds. “Oh!” she says, smiling. “My soulmate is dead,” and the words rush out, joy and relief still so plainly evident. “He’s finally—finally dead. He can’t hurt me anymore.”

“I—Tinia, that’s great,” Prompto says. He’s not sure what to say. Tinia’s soulmate has always been a horrible, threatening spectre on their lives.

Prompto’s never seen Tinia without him hanging over her like an executioner.

“And,” she says, smiling like a secret. “Watch this.”

She pulls a pen off the nightstand next to her, and scrawls onto her arm, _sweetie say hi to prompto!_

Prompto watches, waiting, too stunned to think of what that means, but there’s only one other person Tinia calls _sweetie_. When more words appear, in all too familiar handwriting, forming the words, _hey Proshka! I guess Tinia found you alright?_

“Aedes is your soulmate?” Prompto asks, voice a bit strangled. “ _How_?”

“I don’t know,” Tinia says, “I don’t know. There’s always rumors of someone losing a soulmate and getting a new one, but those are—myth. I’ve never heard of it actually happening to anyone before.”

“You and Aedes are soulmates,” Prompto says. “That’s so… that’s so perfect.”

“I’m so happy, Prompto,” she tells him, starting to cry. “And we’re going to get married, when things settled down. I’m actually going to get married.”

Prompto smiles so hard it hurts, and he also starts crying again.

When they both calm down, Prompto clears his throat and finally asks, “So, um… what’s this about me being a Prince?” It wasn’t the most surprising thing Noctis said in Cor’s office—no, the marriage proposal totally had that beat by miles—but it was only the surprise _from_ the marriage proposal that prevented Prompto from blowing a secret he wasn’t privy to in the first place.

“Oh! Right. Shit.” Tinia runs a hand through her black hair. “That must have been a surprise.”

“A little bit,” Prompto says slowly. “Not as much as Noctis proposing to me, though.”

Tinia shoots up. “He _proposed_ to you? The _Prince of Lucis_ proposed?”

“Yeah,” Prompto says. “Just like. An hour ago.”

Tinia pauses, and suddenly, bursts out laughing. “Oh, Ifrit! He ran straight out of the throne room. I had wondered why. He looked so excited, and the King tried so hard not to mention that his son and his companions had literally just fled the room.”

Prompto smiles and chuckles. “It was _ridiculous_. I was talking to Cor—you know, the _Immortal_ , I got to talk to him!—and Noctis just ran in.”

“Huh,” Tinia says, and doesn’t laugh. She looks contemplatively at the ceiling.

That’s—worrying. Prompto expected her to laugh with him. “Tinia?” Prompto says. “What’s with that face?”

She huffs a bit. “I thought when I came here that I would be negotiating your marriage with your soulmate. That Ignis Scientia boy,” she says, and Prompto bites his lip at how poorly that suggestion would have gone. “I assumed he would have been the highest ranking of your soulmates.”

Yeah, Prompto really expected his other two soulmates would be… less royal.

“Aranea and I had to discuss what your official position would be in Niflheim,” Tinia says. “We know that becoming the Emperor if Aranea were to die isn’t something you want. But since you’re her brother, you needed an appropriate title. Anything less than Prince wouldn’t have worked.”

“I can’t take over an Empire,” Prompto says weakly. “I can’t, Tinia.”

“We know, sweetie. That’s why I’m the Grand Duchess. I’ll do it, if it comes to that.”

Prompto says, the side of his face pressed into the pillow, “I hope it doesn’t.”

“We’ll do everything we can to make sure it doesn’t,” Tinia says, the authority and reassurance bleeding into her voice. Even though Prompto is no longer a child—and never really was one—Tinia has a grasp on a certainty and competence Prompto never will. “We’ve got the Resistance, and what remaining MTs we have. Many of them blew themselves up, so there’s that. And if anything seriously threatens Aranea, she still has Ifrit as a last resort.”

Prompto thinks of Cor and Gilgamesh, and his warning about not to make a contract with Shiva. “So that’s working out?”

“It seems so,” Tinia says. “ _Aranya_ … she complains about him plenty, but the one time she summoned him successfully, he seemed fond of her. We’ll see. We can’t rely on gods. We have appeal to the citizenry—offer people real positions and work, real titles and status. Get real people into the government again.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says. “The MTs blow themselves up?”

“Many did. Our forces are actually—” she stops, but Prompto can imagine the end of that sentence. Their forces are diminished, which, even though there are no cameras are bugs in the room, feels too dangerous to say in hostile territory.

“When the King’s Shield told me they had titled you,” Tinia says, “I might have gotten a little desperate and played up the Prince thing. But I couldn’t let them—call you a traitor if you spoke to me, or something. I’m going to bring you home, _Proshka_.”

That alone could make Prompto start crying again. “I want to go home, Tinia.”

“You will,” she says. “You will. Soon.”

…

Prompto, newly revealed as Prince and dressed to show it in a tailored suit, sits quietly at the table besides the Lady Ambassador. He contributes very little to the negotiations, the Grand Duchess doing most of the discussion, but his presence changes the room.

At least, he does for Gladio. He’s _happy_ now. And relaxed.

He’s a shit politician, no question about it, but the difference between Prompto now and Prompto before is… startling.

Being their pseudo-prisoner, away from his home and his friends, really did a number on him. Which is obvious, Gladio knows, but at the time, he thought Prompto really did enjoy his time with him.

But maybe that was a lie. To make things easier on himself.

As it is, Prompto looks less like a Prince and more like a bodyguard. No longer bound with a sling, he’s watching and listening attentively, fidgeting slightly, but not missing a thing. Ignis did say that a large part of Prompto’s role in the Resistance was to shadow others and protect them from afar. This is merely just closer range for him than usual.

The negotiations, despite all fears, are going well. Their priorities seem more focused on rebuilding and protecting the land and people that they already have, rather than expansion, which is a hopeful sign. The Grand Duchess is a formidable ambassador— _where_ the Empress found her is still a fantastic question that remains a mystery as all they’ve gotten is that she was part of the Resistance—and she’s holding her own against the full set of Council members.

Tellus, in particular, comes prepared. As soon as it was confirmed that the ambassador is a woman, he makes sure his seat would be next to hers and aims for as much charisma as possible. He pulls out the chair for her himself, offers her refreshments, compliments her fine clothing and well-coiffed hair.

Gladio wonders if he and Tellus have read the same books. He's about that level of ridiculous, and the ambassador feels the same, if her unimpressed expression is anything to go by.

The worst part of it is that Tellus is actually the _best_ at charmer out of all of the Council members. Sure, his dad and His Majesty aren’t _terrible_ at it, but Gladio really isn’t ever certain how his dad convinced his mom to even marry him.

Gladio’s always relieved he got his charm from his mom.

“Your clothes are finely tailored, and wearing a suit such a deviation from the standard Niflheim fashion,” Tellus is saying to the ambassador, who calmly sips her wine. “Is Niflheim abandoning the more traditional robes they’ve always favored?”

“Most likely,” her Ladyship says. “We’re not fond of the robes.”

“Really? Why is that?” Tellus smiles slyly, and Gladio wishes he doesn’t have to sit across from him. Watching a man he’s known his entire life--who’s almost like another dad to him--try to charm a woman is _painful_. “You would look quite fetching in aristocratic robes.” He pauses, leans in a bit, and Gladio wants to _die_ , a little bit. “Of course, you would look quite fetching in anything.”

The ambassador smiles, a bit indulgently. “Perhaps then, I could give the Lucian Council some fashion advice.” And here, she glances quickly at Tellus’ ensemble, which is impeccable and boring. “Surely there are other ways to make black more interesting than accenting it with _gold_ at every instance? Not even the most stout noble in Niflheim limits themselves to _only_ wearing white and red. And here, most of you might as well vanish into the decor.”

“I’ll certainly make those suggestions to the Council,” Tellus says, amused and not backing down a jot. “I’ll note that the ambassador of Nilfheim believes our nation’s colors and fashion to be too _subtle_.” Gladio wonders if it’s part of his job to stop his bond father from ruining peace negotiations. Probably.

The ambassador is still smiling, so at least she’s not offended. Or maybe she’s just really good at this politicking thing. “You should also let them know that robes are certainly meant to die along with the old Emperor—both Aranea and I prefer the practicality of suits, and the robes are hideous besides.”

Tellus, who is in fact wearing a traditional robe, is taken aback enough that he pauses for about a second. “That is certainly an adverse opinion for a politician from Niflheim,” he says. “How does the aristocracy feel about such a thing? They do enjoy their traditions.”

“They feel very little, I imagine,” Nitidus says, “as most of them are dead.”

Before Tellus can say anything in response to that, she continues, “Oh, not that we killed them. Most of them were dead before we took over. Aldercapt grew fairly paranoid as he got older.” She pauses to take a sip of her wine. “For good reason, of course.”

“No need for traditions without those to enjoy them, I suppose,” Tellus says, face solemn. Gladio can't really tell if he's intimidated or not. Gladio sure the hell is.

He turns his attention to Prompto who has been quiet all evening. Gladio suspects politics ain’t really his thing, and he’s not totally sure on this, but he’s fairly certain that Prompto didn’t _know_ that the new Empress had claimed him as a brother and Prince.

None of them have had a chance to speak to Prompto since the ambassador arrived. They can’t even get a message to him through Nyx; he has his own guard, comprised solely of MTs, that can’t be bribed or reasoned with.

They considered writing him a note through their skin, but that is… not entirely appropriate, especially when someone is avoiding you. They can’t be sure how Prompto would react.

“Prince Highwind,” Gladio says, well aware that no matter how low he pitches his voice, he immediately has both the Ambassador’s and Tellus’ full attention. “Would you like to accompany me to the gardens?”

The hesitation crosses Prompto’s face clear as day. “No, thanks. I think I’ll pass.”

The refusal stings a bit, even though Gladio knows that he shouldn’t be offended, because Prompto is still new to the etiquette of nobility, but it hurts all the same. For her part, Nitidus looks embarrassed, and Tellus outraged.

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Tinia says firmly, “His Highness spent most of his life outside of high society, so naturally, he hasn’t been prepared for the subtleties of court life.”

Oh. Oh, of _course_. Gladio is an idiot. Prompto was only recently announced as a Prince, and there’s no way he’s come out yet to courtly life. Gladio’s flirting has probably gone right over his head, or worse, has come off entirely as inappropriate. Shit. How does that even shake out when they didn’t know of his title? Gladio doesn’t know the appropriate etiquette when flirting with your soulmate who’s a prince who doesn’t tell you that he’s a prince.

“I beg your pardon,” Gladio says, standing up, “That’s an excellent point, Lady Ambassador. I’ll find another to join me on my walk,” and he flees, leaving Tellus to the mercy of the ambassador.

Prompto not being out in court pretty much strips any chance any of them had for talking with him. And oh _crap_ , that completely takes marriage off the table for him and Noctis.

 _Well_ , Gladio thinks, retreating across the hall, _maybe not completely off the table_. They can’t settle that issue now, but it could be tentatively promised for the future. Terms of peace can be settled and put into action in the meantime, but everyone would feel a lot more secure with a marriage. Even if it’s planned a bit further into the future.

Political marriages make for good political prisoners, after all. Prompto being their soulmate pretty much guarantees that the Empress can rest easy that her brother will be treated well, which is more certainty than most have gotten in the past. But what if the Empress refuses that particular set of terms? Insomnia is a long way from Gralea, and it’s not Lucis that holds the greater negotiating power. The Empress could easily demand that they offer her a marriageable option and—and Gladio worries over who that would be.

It won’t be Noctis. They need him to rule Lucis. It would have to be someone of rank just under Noctis though, and Gladio knows _he’s_ not the most likely candidate. For all that he’s to be the second highest ranking individual in Lucis after Noctis ascends the throne, his father and family’s position will protect him. Ignis, whose parents are dead, whose title is a hollow reminder of the land lost to the Empire, with an Uncle who has heirs of his own already, would be the obvious preference by the Council to bargain away.

Gladio prays it won’t come to that.

“You look deep in thought, Gladio,” says Regis’ deep voice behind him, and Gladio turns and lightly bows.

“Your Majesty,” Gladio says. “I was thinking of the peace terms.”

“Ah, yes,” Regis says, sipping on his own drink. It’s a cocktail of some sort, and probably only has a slightest bit of alcohol in it for flavor. “You and everyone else in the room. They’re proving… a bit surprising.”

Nothing that has happened recently has been at all expected, but Gladio asks, “Which part?” As he does, he follows Regis’ line of sight, and of course, Prompto is at the other side of it. Because who else has been more surprising than Prompto?

“I don’t believe,” Regis says, “that the Crown Prince of Niflheim was aware of his own position prior to the Lady Ambassador’s arrival.”

That would… actually make a lot more sense, than if Prompto had been hiding it this entire time. And why would the Crown Prince of Niflheim come all the way to Insomnia by himself, anyway, except for if he’s not the Crown Prince of Niflheim at the time? “Does that matter, though?” Gladio asks. “We can’t do anything about it.” They can’t prove it, and even if they could, there wouldn’t be a point. They could try to claim Prompto as a Lucian, that they titled him before Niflheim did, but what would that do aside from piss everyone off?

“No, we can’t,” Regis says, sighing. “We would be calling them liars if we suggested anything else, and we’re not in the position to make such a call. But he would have mentioned his title had he been aware of it.”

“Would he?” Gladio asks. “We never would have even agreed to let him go if we had known.”

“It would have guaranteed his good treatment,” Regis counters. “A captive Prince is worth nothing if not alive and well. And it’s risky to not tell us about his title—perhaps we had decided that an assassin running around was intolerable. It was only good fortunate that we discovered his soulbonds before we brought him in.”

 _Yeah_ , Gladio thinks, really _good fortune_. He’s not sure when they would have realized--if they hadn’t—

“Are you going to offer me or Iggy to the Empress for marriage?” tumbles out of Gladio’s mouth before he can rethink his approach. “If they don’t let Noct and Prom—I mean, His Highness—”

Regis glances at him sharply. “No, Gladio, we are not going to offer that. It’s certainly been suggested by some of the Council, but,” he says, sighing. “We need reassurance that Niflheim will not attack us, and sending you or Ignis off to be political prisoners will do nothing to stem those fears. Only add to them, knowing what Niflheim has done to its prisoners in the past.” The King shifts his weight, leaning heavily on his cane. “I’m afraid I grow weary. Gladio, would you please assist me to my quarters.”

Muttering his assent, Gladio takes Regis’ arms and walks him away from the dinner. A couple of glaives peel away from the walls to follow. “We’ve tabled discussions of marriage for future discussions, so Prince Highwind will have time to be properly educated and introduced to courtly life,” the King continues, when they have privacy in the hallway, with only themselves and the glaives as company. “Their ambassador is willing to concede that much, and we’ve gotten more than we’ve expected from these talks.” Gladio’s heard about that. Much of the Kingsglaives are from fallen territories, and if the rumors buzzing from them are true, they’re getting much of that land back in the treaty. “She hasn’t mentioned any interest in arranging a marriage for the Empress, and we hope to keep it that way.”

Gladio breathes in, and tries to relax. “That’s good.”

They get to the King’s chambers, and they go inside. Regis sets aside his cane and his coat, and takes a heavy seat in his chair.

“You’ve spent quite some time with the Prince of Niflheim,” Regis says, as he waves Gladio to the opposite seat. “Tell me—do you think he and my son would be a good match?”

Would the Prince of Niflheim and the Prince of Lucis be a good match politically? Certainly. There could be nothing better. It’s the kind of match that they would write books about for centuries. Gods, Gladio could imagine it now—two soulmates, princes of their own nations, whose soulbond brought peace to all of Eos.

But would Prompto and Noctis be good for each other?

Gladio’s gut suspects so. They certainly seem to enjoy spending time together, but… they spend their time playing video games. It’s been a good activity for both of them, but their interactions at best have been mostly superficial. If they marry, Prompto would become the Prince Consort and hold a decent amount of power in Lucis. And he _is_ still their soulmate.

And they have no idea what kind of ruler he would be. He’s been through a lot, which would likely bring its own set of problems and difficulties to having him in Lucis. It would get him out of Niflheim, out of the running for the throne of the Empire, so if he is a terrible Emperor it might be better for the larger picture to have him in Lucis.

But it would be difficult. Marriage, ruling together, having a Niflheim soulmate in the first place… none of it would be easy.

There is no better solution though.

“They get along,” Gladio says. “They—the time they’ve spent together has just been… hanging out really. Pretty normal for twenty year olds. But if that’s enough for them to be happy married together… I don’t know.”

Regis sighs. “There have been many political marriages built on far less.”

“Prompto’s… I like him. I think he’s a good guy. He hasn’t had the easiest time of it, but…” Gladio says, not sure how to recommend a man to the King when there’s been such terrible circumstances. “He’s definitely a resistance fighter, not a politician. I’m not sure what they have planned for his education when he gets back to Gralea, but I hope it’s thorough.”

“As do I,” the King says.

“May I ask a question?” Gladio says. The King nods, and so he asks, “What do you think of him? Iggy, Noct, and I have talked a lot, and Dad mentioned some things, but…”

Regis doesn’t answer for a minute. “My soulmate died,” he says, and Gladio isn’t expecting that at all. “Back when I was a child. I never got to meet them, or even learn who they were. Like you three, I was ordered to not speak to them until their identity could be confirmed. And I—I have never not wondered.”

Gladio knows, vaguely, that Regis and Aulea weren’t soulmates, but he’s never heard this part before. “That’s—I’m sorry.” His own father had to wait to meet his soulmate, but at least they both lived to do so.

“Aulea was more than I ever dreamed to find, and I loved her. I love her still,” Regis says softly. “It was always assumed we were soulmates, and we never corrected the public in that regard. So—I am not convinced that because my son and Prince Highwind are soulmates, that they will be good partners.”

Regis tiredly rubs his temple. “Not to say the least of the fact that despite everything, a resistance fighter does not just suddenly become a Prince or member of government so easily. We can’t forget that he’s killed the Emperor before and changed the world. If Noctis does something he doesn’t approve of…”

Right. Gladio sits quietly with that, and says, “We don’t know his limits, do we?”

“No,” Regis says, “we do not.”

“He hasn’t killed anyone in Insomnia,” Gladio says, glancing over at the glaives stationed in the room, but there are none he knows well present. “The Kingsglaive seem to like him.”

“Ah, yes,” Regis says. “That is another matter,” he signals to the glaives, who take off. When they’ve gone, he continues, “Tell me, what do you know about the nature of Ulric’s and Prompto’s relationship?”

“What?” Gladio asks, blindsided.

“Their relationship,” Regis repeats, words deliberate and careful. “They seem… unusually close, for a guard and an unwilling guest.”

“I don’t think Nyx has done anything,” Gladio says. Has he? The reports are all as detailed as ever. There are no obvious gaps, nothing that went unexplained, even the one day when Nyx inadvisably took Prompto out to a bar with other Kingsglaives was submitted in full, unashamed disclosure. Nyx even noted how many drinks Prompto had. “Prompto—we’ve needed him to help us with Prompto. Without him, I don’t think we’d have gotten as far with him as we’ve have. Especially Ignis.”

But… Nyx has spent a lot of time with Prompto. He can’t report on every minute and word that passes between the two of them.

“Perhaps it is Prompto who has grown attached,” Regis says. “It is a common thing to occur, to grow unusually fond of someone who treats you kindly in a terrible situation.”

“That could be it,” Gladio says, though now he’s not sure. Prompto doesn’t act like he’s clinging to Nyx like he has no other choice. “I haven’t seen Nyx act like anything’s out of the ordinary.”

“I only ask,” Regis says, “because this could cause problems, if Niflheim agrees to a marriage between Noctis and Prompto. And right now, we don’t have any say in with whom the Prince of Niflheim chooses to spend his affections on. But it is something to note, and keep an eye on. It may, of course, be nothing.”

“Yeah,” Gladio says. “I’ll check in on that. Has Drautos noticed anything?”

“If he has, he hasn’t said anything to me,” Regis says. “But I’ve kept you away from the dinner for far too long, Gladio. Go ahead and return to it.”

“Yes,” Gladio says, mind whirring, as he gets up and bows. “Good night, Your Majesty.”

“Good night, Gladio,” Regis calls out as he leaves.

He doesn’t go back to the dinner. Noctis doesn’t need him as a guard tonight, and he feels far too tired to tolerate the court right now.

Gladio can’t ask Prompto if there’s anything between him and Nyx, not when the Ambassador Nitidus is stoutly thwarting them at every turn. He can’t ask Nyx, because the glaive will deny it. The Kingsglaive are not involved in politics, as a rule, but you don’t become a household name by being _bad_ at it. Gladio would have to trick him into admitting it, but he can’t afford to alienate the glaive. Not now, when they still need him to reach out to Prompto.

And worse of all, it’s really not any of Gladio’s business. If Prompto _is_ sleeping with Nyx, he’d only be following a long tradition of visiting dignitaries. Their soulbonds don’t give them any right to him.

It stings. It stings sharply in his chest, and Gladio can’t do anything about it.

...

There is a marked difference in his soulmates after the dinner, and Prompto’s not quite certain why.

Gladio practically fled the table at dinner, and Prompto didn’t want _that_. He just—doesn’t know how to talk to his soulmates, and he’s terrified of saying the wrong thing. Prompto’s been fucking up things since he’s left Niflheim, and these peace talks are too important.

But after the dinner, none of his soulmates approach him. Or write him. Prompto goes to the peace talks, sits quietly while Tinia argues with an entire foreign council, and then he heads back to his rooms. He catches up with Tinia plenty, but she’s often busy.

The MTs are always with him, though, and they’re odd but they grow on him. Seeing the MTs without their helmets remains unsettling, their faces so similar to his own, but he begins to get used to it. ZRX-7534 in particular endears himself to Prompto, talking haltingly and with growing enthusiasm about foxes and various fauna he’s seen while he’s been stationed as an MT. He particularly likes coeurls, as well, and expressed remorse on when he was ordered out to kill a pack.

The next day, Prompto gets some coeurl print socks for him. He wears them under his MT armor.

Tinia has little time to spare, but they get opportunities to talk, and they send messages home through her soulbond with Aedes. Over the course of several nights, Prompto relates more details about what’s occurred during his time in Insomnia.

And in particular, with Ignis.

“It sounds like it’s been hard for the both of you,” Tinia says, frowning.

“It’s hasn’t been really his fault,” Prompto says, picking at the fine threads of the sheets intermittently. He does so without thinking, and stops himself whenever he remembers how much those sheets must cost. “I know that. It’s just been… not good.”

“It would probably be worth,” Tinia says slowly, “giving him a chance.”

“I want to,” Prompto says. And he does, but he’s tired of draining, emotional conversations. “But I don’t know _how_.”

Tinia sighs. “We’re going to be leaving soon. The treaty’s almost wrapped up as much as we can, but,” she pauses. She pauses long enough that Prompto stops his fidgeting to look at her, uneasy. “The most secure peace measure would be a marriage between you and the Lucian Prince,” she says slowly. “It would have almost complete support by the Lucian Council as well as the public, because you two are soulmates. It would be worthwhile to mend things with your soulmates before you go. Or, at least to say farewell,” she adds, “avoid a larger conversation and leave things amiable. And besides—you won’t see them for quite some time.”

Prompto should talk to Ignis. And Gladio and Noctis for that matter. But what to say? “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll do that.”

Tinia smiles, pats his shoulder and gives him a kiss on the forehead, and leaves to her rooms.

Prompto lies in bed, trying and failing to draft what he would even say to Ignis.

 _I don’t want to leave things like this_ —

 _I don’t think it’s your fault but I don’t know what to do now_ —

 _I waited for years to meet you and I_ —

He tosses on his bed, the fabric too soft and smooth. Prompto rolls right off of it, landing the rug on the cool floor. It helps a little bit, but no words come to mind. Prompto will be leaving soon, and he has no idea what to say to Ignis, or Noctis, or Gladio.

He wishes Nyx were here.

Prompto sits up. “ZRX,” he calls out. “Can you—can you ask the Lucian guard to send Glaive Nyx Ulric here?” He pulls himself up. “Tell them that I want to—um,” he wonders, as he reaches for an excuse, “I want to thank him for his service while we waited for the ambassador?” That sounds like something a noble would say. Yeah.

“Of course, Your Highness,” ZRX says, the hiss and click of his helmet going back on before he steps outside the room. When he steps back inside, he says, “Glaive Ulric will report here shortly.”

“Great,” Prompto says. “Thank you.”

The wait is agonizing, as he paces and fidgets in his room, even though it’s only a few minutes until there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Prompto says, and Nyx opens the door.

“Your Highness,” he says. In Lucian.

The formality stings, but the door’s still open. “Glaive Ulric,” he says because Prompto does understand the importance of appropriate titles at this point. “Uh, please come in. ZRX, you’re dismissed. And um, close the door behind you.”

The nice thing about MTs that Prompto shouldn’t appreciate is that they don’t hesitate, and he doesn’t have time to second guess himself before he and Nyx are alone in his room for the first time in weeks.

“You required me?” Nyx says, after a moment, where Prompto stands in the middle of the room.

“Um, yeah—” Prompto doesn’t know quite what to do with his body, especially when Nyx is looking at him like the past couple of months never happened, “—please don’t call me ‘Your Highness’? I mean, that’s not why I asked you here, but I just—” Prompto stops. “You were calling me Prompto before.”

Nyx stares at him, and finally, minutely, relaxes. “Prompto,” he says, taking a few steps closer, and continues in Gralean, “What did you need me for?”

“I just—” Nyx waves to the chair and the bed, so Prompto sits down on the edge of the bed and Nyx takes the seat, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows. “I wanted to ask you—” and he is going to say, _how to talk to Ignis_ , but the words die in his throat.

Nyx is so close to him, and Prompto can see the small tattoos by his eyes. His brows are furrowed, slightly, in concern, but his expression is open and patient, and Prompto—

Prompto doesn’t want to talk about Ignis.

He leans forward, too quickly and suddenly, his hand reaching up to Nyx’s face as Prompto presses his lips against his. And it’s—awkward, and Prompto’s heart is thudding loud enough that he can’t hear or think, and Nyx isn’t moving. Prompto’s hand on Nyx’s head trembles, and the beginning threads of panic crawl their way through his limbs. He’s about to pull away, when Nyx moves into the kiss, his own hands coming up to cup the back of Prompto’s head.

Prompto makes a sound into the kiss, and lurches off the edge of the bed until he’s sliding onto Nyx’s lap. He doesn’t mean to, but the kisses become hotter, and quicker, and then he’s lacing his fingers into Nyx’s hair and trailing down his jawline with his lips.

“Hey,” Nyx gasps. “Prompto. Are you— _oh_ ,” he says, gasping when Prompto finds a particular spot on his neck, which he lingers on after that. “Wait,” he says, and Prompto tenses and pulls back.

“Yeah?” he asks, nervously, hands twisting against Nyx’s shoulders, growing uncomfortably aware how _quickly_ he just moved into this. “I’m sorry, I should have—I should have asked—”

Nyx’s hands, still cupping the back of his head, pull him down into another kiss. “No, you’re fine. More than fine,” he says thickly, in Lucian instead of Gralean. “But I wanted to say that if you—if you’re doing this because you think you owe me anything, you don’t—you don’t. I helped you because it was the right thing to do, not because I wanted anything from you.”

Prompto shifts, which isn’t the best idea for a conversation, as both his and Nyx’s _enthusiasm_ become uncomfortably obvious.

“I am grateful to you,” Prompto says, and doesn’t let Nyx pull away from him. “But I’m not doing this because of that, I’m doing this because—” he struggles with words, sighs, and gives up. “I like you a lot, and I’m leaving soon. I just wanted to do—something. Before I go.” Prompto hesitates. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

[A corner of Nyx’s mouth lifts in a small smile, and his face is soft and warm. “A farewell, then?”](https://ifellfromtheskies.tumblr.com/post/179231595864/lets-make-it-a-farewell-to-remember-for)

This definitely isn’t the type of farewell Tinia had in mind, but, “Yes.”

Nyx’s fingers knead the muscles of his neck, absentmindedly. “There are cameras everywhere in the Citadel,” he says slowly, glancing up.

“All gone,” Prompto says. “The MTs did a sweep.”

Nyx breathes in. “Okay. Then what about—I mean, I don’t want to bring this up, but I thought you… haven’t had a great history with touch.”

It takes Prompto a second to realize what he means, and when he does, he shakes his head. “As long as you don’t restrain me, we’ll be fine.”

The hands on his neck massage slowly down his neck and his back. “Well, then,” Nyx says, and moves his hands much lower, until they’re firmly gripping Prompto’s ass, and he pulls him flush against him. With a small smirk, he says, “Let’s make it a farewell to remember.”

Nyx stands up, taking Prompto up with him, and lays him out on the bed. Prompto relieves himself of his shirt and undoes his belt by the time Nyx crawls onto the bed on top of him. His arms bracket Prompto’s head, and he asks, “Is this okay?” and Prompto pulls him down for a kiss in response. Nyx shifts away from his mouth to trail kisses and nips down Prompto’s neck, and then further to his chest.

“How do you want to do this?” Prompto asks, closing his eyes, shuddering and gasping as Nyx smoothes his calloused hands down Prompto’s sides while leaving hickies on his chest.

Nyx huffs, breath hot against Prompto’s skin. “Just about to ask you that,” he mutters. “Wanna blow job?”

Blood rushes to Prompto’s dick and becomes the center of his focus, and he says, “ _Yes_.”

Hands unbutton his pants and tug them down, and Prompto helps as best he can until they’re off. Nyx leans over him, stopping for too long a moment just _looking_ at him, and Prompto pushes himself up to meet him. It’s not as hurried as before, but the kiss is so heated that it leaves Prompto gasping when Nyx pulls away to kneel before him.

He grows aware, suddenly, of how naked he is compared to Nyx, who still has his shirt and pants, while Prompto has nothing. But then Nyx runs his hands up Prompto’s thighs and leans forward, and he doesn’t care about their clothes any more.

Nyx holds his hip with one hand, and uses the other work the base of his cock. Prompto shudders and threads his hand into his hair, careful not to pull. “Oh, gods,” Prompto says, as Nyx licks a long stripe down the side.

He licks and teases and Prompto gasps and shivers, until he finally takes him all in his mouth. Prompto gets out a word that might have been a warning before he’s coming down Nyx’s throat. He closes his eyes, and curls over Nyx’s head while he trembles through the pleasure, Nyx sucking him off the entire way through it.

He opens his eyes when Nyx pushes against him, down back onto the bed, going down with him. He kisses him, and Prompto can taste himself on the kiss. Nyx is hard through his pants against Prompto’s thigh, and he tilts his head away from him so he can speak. It’s difficult though, feeling as loose and warm as he does, and Nyx immediately turning his attention to Prompto’s neck. “Do you want to— _oh_ ,” Prompto moans, as he hits a sensitive spot, and tries again. “I can…” Nyx is lavishing attention to his neck, and he can’t _think_. “Oh, _fuck me_.”

Nyx huffs a laugh against his neck, and Prompto says again, “No, really, _fuck me_.”

The mouth against his neck stops, and Nyx’s face is hovering over his. “You sure? I can just—”

“I am _absolutely_ sure,” Prompto says, “but I—shit, I don’t have any condoms, or lube, or anything—”

Nyx laughs. “You’re in a castle, there’s lube and condoms hidden everywhere. For indiscretions just like this one.” He gets up and walks over to the bathroom and returns within seconds with a bottle of lube and some condoms, but stops by the bed. “But are you really sure? I don’t want to… I would love to fuck you, of course, but I don’t want to…”

“I’ve had sex before,” Prompto says, curling onto his side so he’s not splayed out for display on the bed. “If that’s what you’re worried about. I mean, after I was… in the labs. I’ve done this before.” Prompto pauses. “And I _really_ want you to fuck me.”

Nyx visibly relaxes, and takes off his shirt and his pants. “That, I can do.”

Prompto grins. “Do me, you mean?”

Nyx snorts, and climbs onto the bed. “That was terrible,” he says, but he’s not so bothered by it that he doesn’t settle himself next to Prompto and kiss him. Prompto leans into the kiss and keeps leaning until he’s laying draped on top of him.

The cap of the lube pops, and soon enough, a cool, slick finger is feeling around his opening. He shivers and shifts, so his legs brace on either side of Nyx’s hips and he can feel the glaive’s hardness eager and hot against his ass.

The finger presses inside of him, and Prompto breathes and closes his eyes while Nyx gently opens him. When he opens his eyes, Nyx is studying his face, so he distracts him by leaning forward and up to kiss him.

As they kiss, Nyx adds another finger, and soon after a third. When Prompto pulls away, he says, “I’m good. I’m ready.” He sits up, and Nyx groans lightly as he lubes himself up, and when Prompto thinks he’s good enough, pushes his hand away, lines himself up, and sits down. He closes his eyes as he tries to take it in one smooth glide, but Nyx isn’t _small_ , and Prompto has to pace himself.

The sound Nyx makes is going to stay in Prompto’s fantasies forever.

“Prompto—gods,” Nyx gasps as Prompto sets a fast pace once he adjusts, hands gripping the sheets hard, “ _Shit_ —”

Prompto barely realizes he’s hard again, as focused as he is on the cock he’s riding, until one of Nyx’s hands move to work him while he’s fucking himself on Nyx. The hand on him falters and moves to his hip to hold him still when Nyx swears and stills.

“Here—I can—” Nyx says, as Prompto slips off of Nyx to lie next to him, and his hand returns to his cock to finish him off. They lie side by side, the pace much more languid now, and Prompto’s gasps and moans into Nyx’s chest. He comes for a second time that night, shaking and shuddering into Nyx’s hand.

Their breathing is heavy, and neither one wants to move, not even to get cleaned up. As their breathing steadies, Nyx clears his throat. “Well,” he says.

“Yeah,” Prompto finishes.

“Went pretty fast there,” Nyx says. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Prompto says, and he is, warm and content. “You?”

Nyx hums, and kisses his forehead. “Yeah. But I should go,” and Prompto wants to protest, but he knows that. “People will get suspicious if I’m here too long.”

Yes. They will. Because Prompto’s not a nobody anymore.

He pulls away first, and grabs some tissues to clean up. Nyx gets up and retreats to the bathroom with his clothes, and comes out looking as put together as he arrived. Prompto throws on some pajamas provided by the Citadel, that are soft and cotton.

They stand together for a moment, not saying anything.

“Was there a reason you asked me here?” Nyx asks. “Or was it for…”

“Oh,” Prompto says. “No, I didn’t just ask you here for—I didn’t plan this.”

“Then what did you need?” Nyx asks.

Prompto flushes, not sure if he should even bring up Ignis right now. “It doesn’t really matter.”

Nyx frowns. “Can you at least tell me what it is? I should have something to say if anyone asks me what I was doing here.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. That’s a good point. “I just wanted… I wanted to ask you how I should talk to Ignis. I want to talk to him, or say something to him before I leave, but I don’t know how.”

“Oh,” Nyx says. “That’s all? I can talk to him about arranging a meeting between you two.” And he pauses for a minute, considering Prompto. “And I can be there too, if you want.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, something uncoiling inside of him. “That would be great.”

Nyx smiles, steps forward, and gives him one more sweet kiss. “Thanks for the farewell,” he says.

And he leaves.

Prompto’s alone in his room, looking at the mess of the bed, and the acutely aware of Nyx’s absence, when there’s a knock on the door. Prompto thinks, _Nyx_ , even while he knows it’s probably ZRX coming back to his station.

But Prompto goes to the door and opens it, and it’s not ZRX. Or Nyx, for the matter.

It’s someone he doesn’t recognize, but obviously a Lucian with dark hair and pale skin and clothes that don’t belong in the Citadel at all, and that’s all he has time to think before a sharp, glinting knife is stabbed into his chest. Pain, warm, and wet blossoms from his chest, and he’s going backwards, and the stranger follows, lifting up the knife, and bringing it down into him again.

Prompto doesn’t have his guns, doesn’t have anything, and he falls. The floor becomes wet immediately, and he coughs, and everything hurts and there’s fluid in his lungs, and the stranger’s over him with the knife—

—and—

—and they stab him again—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D


	12. conclusion: no conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout.

Ignis lifts his tea bag, watching the water darken from the leaves. He’d rather have a can of ebony, but his uncle dislikes the drink.

And ebony would be counterproductive, as Ignis’ eventual goal is sleep.

“I’m fairly confident that we will be able to get at least a tentative agreement to a marriage between His Highness,” his uncle says, and tacks on with an amuse smile, “and His Highness.”

“Uncle Tellus,” Ignis comments exasperated. He sighs. It _is_ good news--they could not have asked for a better way for peace than an arranged marriage between their princes who happen to be soulmates--but it doesn’t resolve Ignis’ particular dilemma.

“You’ll have a chance to speak to him, my boy,” his uncle says. “It may not be as soon as you wish, but he can’t vanish into the cracks at this point.” And he’s right. Prompto could not break out of the Citadel again without notice, to disappear or die, or any various fears Ignis entertained while they searched for him.

“I certainly will,” Ignis says instead. “But if we must offer the Empress a marriageable option,” and he doesn’t want to suggest this, but he thinks of how _relieved_ all of Insomnia has been in the past year of an actual ceasefire, and he can’t not for a reason so paltry as _he doesn’t want to_ , “I would be happy to offer myself in the interests of peace.”

His uncle peers at his over his glasses, considering. “That is the sensible alternative, if it comes to that,” Tellus says. “However, so far it hasn’t been mentioned in the peace negotiations.” Meaning, of course, that whoever _does_ want to offer Ignis up to Niflheim has been prevented from saying as much in their meetings. “You needn’t worry about it.” And there is also the issue of what Prompto wants, and how much his sister will take that into account, for they still have no idea what manner of woman the new Empress is. If Prompto refuses a political marriage to Noctis, and Ignis fears he will, then by far the next most reasonable solution would be for Ignis to marry Aranea.

 _Well, no,_ Ignis thinks. The second most sensible option after Prompto marrying Noctis would be for Ignis--or Gladio--to marry Prompto and join him in Niflheim. And Prompto would reject Ignis, that’s not even a debatable point. The Council would have to offer Gladio, and Iris would have to take over the role as the Prince’s Shield.

It all depends on who Aranea is, as both a person and ruler. Would she prioritize her brother’s happiness, and angle for a solution that would keep him at home and as happy as possible? Or would she prioritize peace over their personal feelings.

Based on what Ignis knows about what Prompto has been through--what the new Empress has also been through--Ignis strongly suspects that she will lean towards the former.

No one else seems to think that, and Ignis worries.

He doesn’t want Gladio to leave them.

But he will have very little say in the matter. Lucis’ priority is, as it must be, peace. An end to this death and bloodshed. To have their first generation in ages where the majority of the youth are not sent to their deaths.

Whatever must be done, will be done. Ignis knows this.

“Don’t look so glum, Iggy,” Tellus says. “No one’s going to send you or Gladio off to the wolves to fend for yourselves. We’ve got about enough as we need for now, in terms of trade, military agreements, and rebuilding efforts. Marriage won’t be a discussion until a future time.”

“What are they going to do with their bases in Lucis?” Ignis asks because he doesn’t want to talk circles around what _might_ be done with him and Gladio. His worry will not help or change the situation, which will not stop him from worrying, but there is no need to keep discussing it.

“They’ll pull out of them within the next five years, so as to allow us to slowly rebuild our own patrol units and stations,” his uncle tells him, enthusiasm shining through for his favorite subject--politics. Ignis sighs, but tries not to visibly show it. “We’re a little low on manpower, so we’ll need to recruit, but we also no longer will have to account for regular losses in the scale we were during active warfare. And we’ll be able to recruit much more openly and easily from all regions of Lucis now, since the occupation is abandoning their claim on the land.”

“If they are ceasing their occupation of Lucis,” Ignis wonders, “what will they do with Accordo and Tenebrae?”

“I do not know that,” his uncle says. “That is for the regents of those governments to negotiate. Accordo, at least, is very comfortable with its position cozied up to the Empire as they were, but who knows how the Empress will feel about that? And as for Tenebrae…” Tellus pauses in thought. “We’ve not seen Prince Ravus in the news at all, and if Niflheim has him, they’ve not made a peep about it. Princess Lunafreya is still under house arrest--we’re still working on negotiating her transfer to our custody, but I am not optimistic.” Sighing, he adds, “With a system as large and extensive as the Empire, I imagine the Empress is _still_ playing catch up. She would have to see what is happening on its own, and decide if she wants to change it, and then figure out what to change it to, and how to change it effectively.” He takes a sip of his tea, and jots a note down in his notebook. “It’s not an easy task, what this Aranea has signed up to do. It is rather admirable.”

“Though whether or not she success is another matter entirely,” Ignis says.

“Indeed. And by overthrowing the old Emperor,” Tellus says, getting up to take his empty tea cup to the sink. “They’ve only proven that such a thing is possible. Aranea may not rule for long.”

“For our sake, I hope she does,” Ignis says. “Concerns aside, this is perhaps one of the best positions we could be in.”

“That it is! The Empress’ brother, soulmates to our children? We couldn’t have dreamed for better leverage.”

“Uncle,” Ignis chides.

“Oh, we’re not going to just bargain you away,” Tellus says with a smile. “At least not for free. I’ll make sure to get a good dowry. How many cows do you think you’re worth?”

“ _Uncle_ ,” Ignis says.

“I think at least three cows,” Tellus continues. “Maybe four.”

Ignis fights a smile, and loses. It’s not a situation that they really should be joking about, which makes the jokes that much more necessary. “I am definitely worth at least five cows.”

“ _Five_?” His uncle says, smile widening, and he says something, but Ignis doesn’t hear it.

A sharp and sudden pain busts from the left side of his chest, so much and so quickly, that he finds himself on the floor with broken pieces of his cup. There’s more bursts of pain, but Ignis doesn’t know how many. This is far worse than the regular cuts he gets in training--deeper, into his chest, his lungs.

He thinks he’s screaming. Or crying. He’s not sure, he doesn’t think he can breathe, he’s pressing his hands to his chest, but it’s not helping.

“Iggy! Iggy, what--” Tellus is kneeling besides him, by the shards and the spilled tea, trying to pull his hands away and undo his shirt to see what’s happened. “Guards! _Guards!_ ”

More hands appear on him, stronger than his uncle’s, and they pull his hands away and remove his shirt. The pain doesn’t cease, but Ignis starts being able to think again, as fingers prod his chest for any possible cause and someone begins to check his vitals.

 _This has happened before_ , he realizes, and tries to speak to say as much, but the pain prevents him. Never this bad, never this painful, but when Gladio got the scar on his face--and when Noctis was injured by that daemon…

“It’s not me,” Ignis rasps, as he tries to push the hands away from him. He is breathing, but his lungs hurt with every movement. His body is panicking, telling him that his lungs aren’t working, but they’re _fine_. He breathes through it, and it’s like knives are in his chest. “It’s--Noct, or Gladio, or--my phone, I need my phone.”

One of the Crownsguards get his phone, which rings. “Answer it,” Ignis says weakly, still on the floor.

The guard does, and puts it on speaker. “ _Iggy, you alright?_ ” comes Gladio’s voice. “ _What’s happening?_ ”

“Count Scientia collapsed, but is conscious,” says the guard. “Is his Highness injured?”

“ _No, he’s not. He’s fine. He’s right here_ ,” Gladio says.

Ignis relaxes, and the pain in his chest is even beginning to fade. But everyone’s alright, Gladio, Noctis, and--

He shoots up, which is a terrible idea. Ignis falls, but a guard catches him. “Prompto!” Ignis exclaims. “Where is Prompto?”

“ _In his room_ ,” Noctis says.

Ignis doesn’t know how Noctis knows that, but he gets up again, and manages to stick on his feet. “We need Kingsglaives and medics at Prompto’s room _now_ ,” Ignis tells the guards. “He’s been attacked.”

Ignis tries to leave, but his uncle pulls on his arm. “Don’t, Ignis. You won’t be any help if you’re reeling from your soulmate’s injuries.”

Ignis doesn’t bother to reply. He yanks himself out of Tellus’ grip, and goes.

His chest hurts, but it’s not him. It’s Prompto.

He runs.

...

Gladio meant to spend a quiet night in his room reading, but he can’t focus, feeling too hot and too restless, so he visits Noctis and finds something new to focus on. They tussle a bit, because no matter what he says, Noctis _enjoys_ being manhandled.

But when their clothes come off, and they fall into the bed entangled, Gladio pulls Noctis between his legs, and Noctis pauses.

“Really?” Noctis asks, even while he relaxes his weight onto Gladio and shifts until the pressure is _just so_. “You’re in a mood, huh?”

Gladio hums, running his hands down Noctis’ back, callouses catching lightly on smooth skin, avoiding the long, knotted scar along his spine. He still feels hot, and now he feels so empty. “A bit, yeah,” he says softly.

“Like this?” Noctis asks, rolling his hips forward. Gladio closes his eyes at the sparks of pleasure the friction induces, and nods.

“Yeah,” Gladio says, and adds on, not quite sure why, “please.”

Noctis pauses again, looks at him through his fringe, and reaches a hand up to stroke his forehead. “You’re feeling okay, right?”

“Yeah, I just--” Gladio doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but he really wants someone right now. “I just want it this way, right now.”

Noctis leans up and kisses him. Gladio’s impatient, so he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and curls his legs up against Noct’s back to pull him closer.

Noctis hums into the kiss, and shifts his knees until they’re braced on the bed and flush against the back of Gladio’s thighs. Gladio twists around to reach for the nightstand, keeping Noctis close, while he fishes around for some lube. When successful, he hands it to Noct.

Gladio lets himself relax onto the bed as Noctis leans back to lube up a finger and slip it inside. It’s nice, and Noctis goes a good pace, but it’s not enough. “Go on,” Gladio grunts.

Noct obeys. It’s still not enough, and Gladio just can’t wait. “I’m good,” he says. “Come on.”

“Pushy,” Noctis says, and even though he’d much rather take, Noctis has a competitive streak a mile wide, and he’s easy to rile up. He pulls his fingers out not as gently as he could have, grips Gladio by the hip, and pushes right in.

Gladio moans, closing his eyes.

Noctis pulls out, leans forward for a better grip by Gladio’s shoulders, and slams back in. It’s a little faster than Gladio wants, so he wraps an arm around Noctis back and when he’s all the way in, Gladio reaches down for a kiss.

When they part, Gladio whispers, “A little slower. I want--” but he’s not quite sure what he wants. “I just want you,” he finishes.

Noctis looks a little bit relieved, because topping--or being initiative about sex, or being that into sex in general aside from what Ignis and Gladio ask him for--isn’t really his thing. He presses an open mouthed kiss to Gladio, and then trails over his jaw while he settles on a new pace that’s deep but not as fast.

Gladio moves his hands back to Noctis’ ass, enjoying the feel of his muscles moving. And, since he can, he pops the lid off the tube of lube, gets some on his fingers, and slides a hand between Noct’s cheeks to tease him. Noct gasps and moans, his pace faltering. “Not fair,” he whines. “So not fair.”

When Noct thrusts in, Gladio pushes a finger into him at the same time. Noct whimpers, but keeps going.

It draws it out, multitasking like that. Noctis’ pace is touch and go, especially when Gladio decides to add another finger. He positions his hand so that when Noct fucks himself on Gladio’s hand when pulling out. He gasps, and moans, and has nowhere to go to find relief. His pace does pick up, as he gets more desperate, crying out Gladio’s name.

Gladio’s own cock is trapped in friction between them, and with Noctis inside of him, squirming on his hand, and still whimpering in his ear, he comes in streaks all over their chests. Noctis squirms and grinds into him harder, demandingly, and Gladio puts one more finger inside of Noct and curls his fingers just so until Noct gasps and stills and there’s heat spreading inside of him.

Noct collapses on top of him, it sticky and wet between them, and Gladio gently tugs his fingers out. They’re both panting, but Gladio’s cum cools quickly, so he gently pushes Noctis off of him so he can get up. Noct rolls onto his back limply, already dozing off

Gladio gets up for some washcloths, and wipes them both down. When he’s done, he falls back into bed and pulls Noct close.

“Hm, so you gonna tell me what that was all about?” Noct mutters, not opening his eyes and Gladio arranges him in his arms.

“I’m not sure,” Gladio admits. He doesn’t quite feel better, but he’s no longer trying to crawl out of his skin with a hard on. He squeezes Noct against his chest, who makes a small noise of protest as his face squishes against his pecs. Gladio eases up a bit, but not in time before Noct licks his nipple.

“Oh, what, you want round two?” Gladio says, kicking a thigh between Noct’s legs.

Noct groans and mutters, “If we’re going again, you get to do all the work. I’m not topping again.” His face scrunches up, and Gladio can feel it against his skin. “Or whatever that was. You cheater. With your cheating fingers.”

Gladio laughs, just for a second, before he’s so terrified that he grips Noctis so hard that he yelps.

“Shit, man, let go!” Noct yells, flailing, but Gladio’s not trying to hold onto him. “Gladio, what the hell!” He rolls off the bed, but catches himself before he actually falls. “Gladio?”

He doesn’t know what’s happening. He sits up, holding a hand to his chest, but he can’t speak. Gladio opens his mouth, staring at Noctis’ alarmed face, but no words of any kind come out.

Gladio’s trained his entire life to act in the face of fear. He thinks he knows what this is, that’s making his heart beat too fast, his body tremble, and his chest hurt. Gladio pushes himself off the bed, grabs his phone, and calls Ignis, who doesn’t answer.

A Crownsguard does, and by the time he hears their voice, his fear for Iggy overrides any other fear he could possibly have. And Iggy’s fine. He’s down, but fine.

Gladio’s relieved, for a moment, before Ignis is shouting about Prompto over the phone, and Noctis says, “He’s in his room,” like he actually knows that for sure.

“Get some clothes on,” Gladio tells him. “We’re going into lockdown.”

“But Iggy--” Noctis begins to protests, but cuts himself off.

“He can take care of himself,” Gladio says. And grimly, he thinks to himself that it’s not Iggy that they need to be worried about.

That won’t help Noctis, not right now, so Gladio gets the guards posted outside the door in the room with them, and they settle in to wait.

And wait.

 

...

 

_/error_

_/rerouting…_

_/error_

_/rerouting…_

_/systems failure_

_/restart?_

_\-- >yes_

_/restarting…_

_/ventilation system error_

_/power system error_

_/left leg at 10% functionality_

_/reroute power_

_/rerouting…_

_/compensating…_

_/system online_

_/functionality: 30%_

_/mobility impaired_

_/action: seek nearest base for repairs_

_/action: find and eliminate hostile_

_/action: resume mission_

 

ZRX-7534 opens his eyes. Waits. Sharpens his hearing. One (1) human within twenty feet. Identified: his mission {Prince Prompto Highwind}. Status: Accelerated heart rate. Low blood pressure. Olfactory senses indicate blood.

Conclusion: His mission is injured.

Action: required.

 

_/action_

_/walk_

_/failure_

_/action_

_/walk_

_/failure_

_/action_

_/do not walk_

_/crawl_

_/success_

 

Mission status update: damage confirmed. Injuries: three (3) stab wounds in chest. No other visible injuries. No visible hostile detected. ZRX-7534 sharpens auditory, olfactory senses. No non-visible hostile detected.

ZRX-7534 does not approach. His own status: wounded and bleeding. Do not mix blood.

Action: required. His mission is dying.

“Z…” his mission says. His hands are held against his wounds. “Help.”

ZRX-7534 wants to help, but doesn’t know how.

 

_/orders: help_

_/searching database…_

_/searching…_

_/searching…_

_/error: not found_

_/error: imminent mission failure_

 

“Get help,” his mission orders.

 

_/orders: get help_

_/searching database…_

_/previous orders: defer to Lucian authorities for duration of stay_

_/solution: contact Lucian officials_

_/connecting…_

_/connecting…_

_/connecting…_

_/connected_

_/contact: success_

 

“This is MT Unit ZRX-7534,” he speaks. “Prince Prompto Highwind is injured. He requires immediate medical assistance.”

One second point two five before response. “This is Captain Drautos. Where are you located?”

“Prince Prompto’s room,” ZRX-7534 reports. “Injuries include at least three stab wounds to the chest. I do not detect other injuries.”

“Who attacked him?” demands Captain Drautos. ZRX-7534 engages the memory files, and determines that Captain Drautos is Captain Titus Drautos of the Kingsglaive. He is an appropriate authority to report to.

“Male, approximately five foot nine, one hundred ninety pounds, dark hair, skin tone #14,” ZRX-7534 reports. “I did not succeed in detaining him.”

“My men are en route,” the Commander says. ZRX-7534 changes his calculations of the likelihood of mission failure. “How did you get on this line? It’s secure.”

 

_/order: provide methodology_

 

“I connected to it when His Highness ordered that I get help,” ZRX-7534 says. A burst of heat and light by the door, and ZRX-7534 aims his gun, but lowers it when recognizing Kingsglaive Units Tredd Furia and Libertus Ostium.

“Shit,” says Libertus Ostium. He moves past the blood and kneels by his mission’s side. Unit Libertus Ostium presses his hands against his mission’s wounds, and his mission makes a noise. “He needs ALS right now. I can do a little bit with magic, but his lungs have been punctured.”

 

_/analyzing vocal pitch_

_/mission {Prince Prompto Highwind} is injured_

_/conclusion: Kingsglaive Unit [Libertus Ostium] is causing him pain_

_/order: protect his mission {Prince Prompto Highwind}_

_/order: defer to Lucian authority_

_/status: conflicting orders_

_/action: unknown_

_/error: action required_

_/action: observe_

 

Kingsglaive Unit Tredd Furia examines the perimeters of the room, and reports, “Clear.”

ZRX-7534 already reported that. They do not trust his reports. Probable reason: he is functioning at 30%. His systems are faulty and unreliable.

“Where’s the Ambassador?” Unit Tredd Furia asks.

 

_/order: locate Ambassador {Grand Duchess Tinia Nitidus}_

_/searching database…_

_/error: not found_

_/searching alternative actions…_

_/solution: contact MT Units [Bubbles] and [Blanket]_

 

ZRX-7534 does not have that information, but he opens a communication line to MT Units Bubbles and Blanket, requesting their location. They respond.

“She is meeting with King Regis and Shield Clarus,” ZRX-7534 answers. The Kingsglaive Units look at him.

“Captain, the Ambassador is not present. She’s with His Majesty,” Unit Tredd Furia says.

Through the Kingsglaive’s channel, Captain Drautos says, “We’ll secure them at their location and get the others on lockdown. Get the Niflheim Prince medical attention immediately. Arra, we need teams sweeping the Citadel for the assassin.”

“On it,” Unit Axis Arra says from another location.

“We just got a call from Lord Scientia that Prince Prompto’s been attacked,” Captain Drautos says. “His nephew is on his way.”

“What? How would they know that?” asks Kingsglaive Unit Tredd Furia.

“Count Scientia is more in tuned with his soulmates than most,” Captain Drautos says. “Useful, in this case, if the MT hadn’t been around to warn us. How’s the MT, by the way?”

 

_/order: provide status update_

 

“Injured,” reports ZRX-7534, “Diagonal cut through my abdominal wirings. I am at 30% functionality. I can report.”

“Can you hang in there while we take care of His Highness?”

 

_/order: wait_

_/order: complete mission_

 

ZRX-7534 does not understand these orders. He will be repaired when they repair him. “My injuries can wait.”

Kingsglaive Unit Libertus Ostium says, “We’ll need someone from Niflheim to address his wounds. I don’t know how to _heal_ MTs.”

“I’ll inform the Ambassador,” says Commander Drautos. “Good job, MT.”

 

_/statement: commendation_

_/action: acknowledge_

 

“Thank you, sir,” ZRX-7534 says.

There is a noise from outside the room.

 

_/action: sharpen auditory_

_/noise identified: shouting_

_/noise identified: running_

_/engage memory files: “his nephew is on his way”_

_/engage memory files: “Lord Scientia”_

_/engage memory files: -- >nephew_

_/information found: Count Ignis Scientia_

_/speaker identified: Count Ignis Scientia_

 

Count Ignis Scientia runs into the room. Kingsglaive Unit Tredd Furia stops him from running onto the blood on the floor.

“He’s alive,” says Kingsglaive Tredd Furia. “You can go with him, but the medics are on their way.”

“Of course. I--of course,” says Count Ignis Scientia. He walks to Prince Prompto, and kneels in the blood by his side. He reaches out to touch Prince Prompto’s head with one hand, the other to grasp his hand.

His mission whimpers.

 

_/analyzing voice pitch_

_/mission {Prince Prompto Highwind} is injured_

_/conclusion: mission {Prince Prompto Highwind} is alive_

_/probable: mission {Prince Prompto Highwind} is conscious_

_/probable: injuries on head or hands_

_/probable: Count Ignis Scientia is hurting his mission_

_/engage memory files: “Count Ignis Scientia”_

_/search: hierarchal status_

_/searching..._

_/information found: “soulmate” of his mission {Prince Prompto Highwind}_

_/search: meaning of “soulmate”_

_/searching..._

_/information found: “partners”_

_/information found: “sweetie”_

_/information found: “shit head”_

_/information found: “abuser”_

_/information found: “spouse”_

_/information found: 167 more files_

_/error: conflicting information_

_/conclusion: no conclusion_

 

“Focus on your soulmate,” Kingsglaive Unit Libertus Ostium says. It takes two seconds longer than it should for ZRX-7534 to realize he is speaking to Prince Prompto Highwind.

Prince Prompto’s hand tightens around Count Ignis Scientia’s. The Count touches his hair and whispers, “Everything is going to be fine. You'll be okay,” when he has no knowledge or authority to say such a thing.

More Lucians appears, including more Kingsglaive Units and some that have white uniforms that ZRX-7534 cannot confirm as authorities. The Kingsglaive Units Tredd Furia and Libertus Ostium allow them entry, so ZRX-7534 updates their identification within his files as authorities. They go to his mission and begin to connect him to various machines for Assisted Life Support, including an intravenous needle, a respirator, and a heart monitor.

Several Kingsglaive Units are present in the room, some of which ZRX-7534 recognizes, including Unit Nyx Ulric. ZRX-7534 engages his memory files to recall that his previous orders included requesting Unit Nyx Ulric’s presence to Prince Prompto Highwind’s room.

Unit Nyx Ulric stands in the room. He is unusual because unlike the other Kingsglaive Units, and the unidentified units in white, he is not doing anything. Possible: his orders are to stand guard? Observe others for their performance?

ZRX-7534 eliminates both of those possibilities when Unit Nyx Ulric approaches him. “Hey, are you injured?”

 

_/order: status report_

 

“Yes,” ZRX-7534 responds. “Diagonal cut through my abdominal wirings. I am at 30% functionality. I can report.”  
  
Unit Nyx Ulric moves his face, and turns away from him. “We need a medical team for this MT, too,” he says to the unidentified units in white.

“We don’t know how to treat MTs,” says one of the units in white.

“Then we get their people to do it. He’s injured,” Unit Nyx Ulric says. His tone reminds ZRX-7534 of when he was still newly hatched, prone to making mistakes, and would require correction from his superiors. “They’ve got to know what to do for him.”

“We already spoke to the commander. He's informing the ambassador,” says Kingsglaive Unit Libertus Ostium. He is staring at Unit Nyx Ulric. ZRX-7534 watches as they lift his mission onto a gurney and leave the room with him, Count Scientia following close behind. ZRX-7534 should go with them, but his leg is still functioning at 30%. Most of the Kingsglaive Units leave with his mission. Probable: they are taking over his mission, as he almost failed.

Kingsglaive Units Nyx Ulric and Tredd Furia remain, and they speak to each other.

“We need to move him, too. We can’t just leave him bleeding out on the floor,” Unit Nyx Ulric says, gesturing to ZRX-7534.

“What, we’re calling that blood, now?” Kingsglaive Unit Tredd Furia asks, but they both surround ZRX-7534. “We’re going to pick you up and carry you to medical, alright?”

ZRX-7534 understands. He nods.

They lift him and carry him out of the room and down the hall. On their way, Unit Tredd Furia says, “What happened?”

 

_/order: report_

 

They want his report. He gives it, and both Kingsglaive Units listen.

“You okay, Nyx?” Unit Tredd Furia asks Unit Nyx Ulric. ZRX-7534 does not understand why.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says.

“You sure? I know you two got pretty close there--”

“I’m sure,” Unit Nyx Ulric says again, sounding prepared to correct Unit Tredd Furia.

ZRX-7534 does not speak further.

Certainty: ZRX-7534 will face correction for his mistakes. Probable: decommissioning. He does not want to accelerate his ending now.

…

Nyx takes the MT to the medical wing and waits for the Niflheim party to attend to him. He stands guard outside the medical wing until things quiet.

Prompto is alive. He shouldn’t be, not with three stab wounds to the chest. Nyx hears snippets throughout about his status: punctured lung. Needle decompression. Blood in his lung.

But he’s alive. He’s not dead. He should be, but he’s not. Not yet.

The frenzy in the Citadel and the medical wing  hasn’t diminished for the hours Nyx stands guards, and Prompto is still in ER, likely not to emerge any time soon.

Through the comm, he hears that they don't find the would-be assassin. No one else was hurt. Prompto’s soulmates, and the ambassador, will visit him when he can receive visitors. Ignis is still waiting in the medical wing, either with Prompto, or close enough.

And Drautos is in his office.

Nyx slips away and goes to Drautos’ office.

Drautos, who is leaning against his desk with his coat off, sipping what looks like whiskey.

“Drinking on duty, sir?” Nyx teases half-heartedly.

Drautos says, “Luche is taking over. Thank the gods. I need to rest before shit really hits the fan. I doubt Niflheim will leave without more bloodshed now.”

Nyx’s gut twists, and he feels like he might be sick. “I need to talk to you.”

Drautos eyes him, and lowers his glass. “Something's wrong.”

“Yes. I--you need to know,” Nyx says, guilt crawling through his skin like it would eat him alive. He wishes it would. “I was in Prince Prompto’s room right before he was attacked.”

His commanding officer stares at him. “Did you stab him?”

“No!” Nyx says, horrified and miserable. He came here because he knew that would be the assumption, but to hear Drautos say it--! “No, I swear I didn’t.”

Drautos puts his glass down on his desk. “Sit down, Nyx. Tell me what happened.”

Nyx sits, and he’s been in this chair many times, carelessly sprawled on Drautos’ furniture like he owned it. Now, though, he feels hunches over himself, feeling small.

Slowly, he tells Drautos how he was summoned to Prompto’s room. How they sat down to talk, and then how it quickly spiralled into something else entirely. Something that Nyx ached for, and never entertained he might have.

“You had sex with him,” Drautos says. His voice is the dangerous kind of toneless. “Ulric. Nyx. What is my one rule?”

“Don’t fuck the nobility,” Nyx mutters.

“And what did you do?”

Nyx flinches. “Fucked the nobility.”

“And now we have a foreign Prince on the verge of death, and you in a position to be easily implicated,” Drautos says. “Do you see why we do not fuck nobility?”

Nyx nods into his chest.

“Nyx, look at me,” Drautos says, and Nyx obeys. “Who knows that you were in the Prince’s room? Because if that gets out, whether or not you had sex won’t matter. Lucis will have to offer you over to Niflheim to salvage the peace talks. They’ll do it, because finding the assassin will take too long, may not be successful in the first place, and you’ll be a convenient scapegoat. Do you understand?”

Nyx does, all too well. Lucis no longer has capital punishment.

But Niflheim sure as hell does.

“I understand, sir,” Nyx says, closing his eyes. He’s not getting enough air suddenly, and he needs to calm down.

He hears Drautos sigh, and the thud of something on the desk and the clink of a glass. “Here, Nyx. You look like you need it.”

Nyx accepts the glass with shaking hands, and takes a sip. It’s strong, and it warms him down to his stomach.

“It just…” Nyx says, with the need to say something. “I mean, he wanted to say farewell.”

Drautos snorts, and Nyx has never heard him make that sound before. “One hell of a way to say farewell, Nyx.” His eyes narrow, and his attention refocuses on Nyx with alarming speed. “You did _want_ to, didn’t you?”

“Yes!” Nyx says, trying to eliminate fears about _that_. “I wanted to!” And a little more quietly, “I really wanted to.”

Drautos stares at him harder, and it’s different from any of the other times Nyx has been on the receiving end of Drautos and his judgement. He doesn’t squirm because he’s too disciplined for that, but it’s distinctly uncomfortable.

“Amazing. Ulric,” Drautos says. “I now have a second rule. _Don’t fall in love with nobility_.”

Nyx chokes on his whiskey, and it _burns_. “I’m not in love with him!”

“Well, that’s _something_ ,” Drautos says. “Nyx. You’re a good man. A good soldier. Your heart’s in the right place, and I trust and respect you. But what you did was _stupid_. You know that, don’t you?”

Nyx leans forward, head in his hands, eyes tightly shut. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. But I was--I was there only,” he thinks on when he left and when he came back after hearing the call to action, “ten minutes before. Gods, it was probably only a few minutes between when I left and he was attacked.”

Drautos leans back in his chair, drinking his whiskey faster than he probably should. But hey, Nyx can’t judge. Not in their line of work. “To be clear,” he says, “this was the first time you had sex with the Niflheim Prince?”

“Prompto,” Nyx says, still finding it odd to think of how many changes of identification Propmto has gone through since arriving in Lucis, from assassin to the Prince’s soulmate to a prince himself.

Drautos’ stare is a pathetic mixture of unimpressed and pity. He repeats, “Was that the first time you had sex with Prompto?”

Nyx clears his throat. “Yeah. Yes, it was.”

“For fuck’s sake, Nyx,” Drautos says softly. “It’ll be alright. We’ll figure it out.” His glass is empty, and so is Nyx’s--Drautos pours them both another. “His wounds are serious. They have him on assisted life support, he’s in surgery, he’s not dead yet, but he’s been lucky so far.” Tapping his glass with a finger, he adds, “With three stab wounds to the chest… he should be dead.”

“Yeah,” Nyx says, throat tight at the thought. He has nothing else to say.

“There’s no telling when he’ll wake up, if he ever does,” Drautos says, pushing forward like a steamroller. Nyx tells himself to pull it together. “If he wakes up and can tell his account of the events, you should be in the clear. But we can’t rely on that. Nyx,” Drautos says, “if suspicions get cast onto you, you might need to leave.”

He doesn’t want to leave. “Where would I go?” Nyx asks. “I couldn’t go to Niflheim, and I couldn’t stay in Lucis.” And there’s nowhere else. Tenebrae and Accordo are both, in essence, Niflheim. No matter what independence Accordo has been able to wrangle from the Empire, they are subject to Niflheim’s laws. And there’s not a single doubt that they would hand over anyone that would get them into the Empress’ good graces.

Tenebrae’s self-governance is an obvious sham on the best of days, and overtly manipulating their royal family into being their puppets. There’s no refuge to be found there.

Drautos is quiet. “I might know some people,” he says. “I don’t know how helpful they’d be for this, but… I could arrange something.”

If anything, Nyx’s guilt increases tenfold at the thought of his captain compromising his integrity to get Nyx out of trouble. “I have a reason for why Prompto asked me to his room,” Nyx says, and when Drautos quirks an eyebrow, he quickly follows up with, “That’s non-sex related. He wanted advice on how to talk to Scientia.”

“Count Scientia,” Drautos corrects. “And alright. That’s something. I’d rather not have to make use of my contacts if I don’t have to.”

“Are they people I know about, or…” Nyx shouldn’t ask, but he can’t think of what contacts Drautos would still have now from Niflheim, when the Empire has been burned to the ground as thoroughly as their Infernian always promised.

“No,” Drautos says, “I received an offer awhile ago, before, well. Your loverboy changed things,” and Nyx can’t work up the indignation to protest that term. No matter how serious the situation, the Kingsglaive will always have his back. And give him shit for it.

Wait--what kind of an offer? “An offer from the Empire?” Nyx asks, with the sinking realization that he and his commanding officer are discussing _treason_ over drinks.

Drautos pauses and says, “Yes.”

Nyx doesn’t know what the offer was, but he can guess. A year ago, before the Emperor was killed, they all knew where the war was going. Nyx remembers the stress, the fear, and the pain his fellow Kingsglaive went through on a daily basis. “Were you going to take it?”

“Does that matter?” Drautos asks, which means _yes_. “I don’t have to now,” and Nyx is relieved that his commanding officer looks relieved.

“Who knows you were in the room?” Drautos asks.

“The MT,” Nyx says. “He was injured, too.”

Drautos narrows his eyes. “We can’t use the word of an MT to prove your innocence.”

“But he described someone who’s shorter than me,” Nyx says, “wouldn't that be--”

“That won’t be enough, not if the Prince dies,” Drautos cuts in. “They’ll assume you’re an accomplice, if they believe the MT at all. And they _won’t_ ,” his commanding officer says, tone brooking no argument. “No one in their right mind is going to listen to the word of an MT. Most Lucians don’t even know that they’re not just robots, and those that do know better than to believe that they’ll be reliable witnesses.”

Nyx opens his mouth--to protest, possibly, even though he never thought _he’d_ be defending an MT--but Drautos doesn’t let him. “No, Ulric, MTs are not reliable witnesses. Even if the new Empire is trying to make them palatable, they do only as they’re ordered to.” He sighs. “Is the MT the only thing that knows you were in the Prince’s rooms?” Nyx nods. “We could get rid of the MT, then.”

Nyx grips his glass tighter. “I think the Prince likes that MT,” he says and regrets immediately, because he shouldn’t know that, and he definitely shouldn’t have used that point in this argument in the first place. Drautos stares at him. “I mean,” Nyx corrects, “He went through a couple of other people before he got to me, so the MT isn’t the only one who knows I was there.”

Drautos rubs his fingers against his temple. “So everyone probably knows by now.”

“Yeah,” Nyx says.

“Well, we’ll have to see how Prompto does. If he wakes up, this won’t be a problem. You have a reason for being there that _doesn’t_ including fucking his brains out,” Drautos says, and as much shit as Nyx has given his commander over the years, he never actually wanted him to have to talk about sex with him.

“Saying it was because he wanted to know how to talk to Count Scientia should be sufficiently distracting,” Nyx says without really thinking about it. “Because they’ve had… issues.” But Ignis had run to Prompto. How did he know what had happened? Ignis isn’t on any of their comm lines, and he showed up before Nyx did.

When Nyx showed up, Ignis was holding Prompto’s hand and comforting. And just an half hour before that, Nyx was the one who--

No. He can’t think about that.

But he does. The alcohol doesn’t help stem the unwanted thoughts. He drinks some more, but all he can see is Ignis crouching besides Prompto, comforting him.

While Nyx stood by the door. Unable to do anything more than his duty.


	13. To Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto's asleep this entire chapter, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [notavodkashot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot) for her inspiring ideas about worldbuilding the countries and regions of in ffxv, and also for giving me permission to play around with them! <3 So if you notice similarities between ideas about Tenebrae and Galahd and such between our fics, it's because we've been talking a lot and she's graciously sharing

It has been many long, long hours that the doctors are in the operating room with Prompto before one of them comes out. Ignis stands up out of the chair in the waiting room, and it is only then that he realizes that there is blood drenching his sweatpants, and it has dried and caked onto his skin.  _Prompto’s blood._ The movement pulls the hairs on his legs in a brief fit of pain. _A pool of Prompto’s blood._

Ignis takes a breath in, and focuses on the surgeon.

“He’s stabilized,” says the doctor. “The Astrals watched over him,” he says, in a flagrant bout of religiosity that Ignis generally finds distasteful for those in the medical profession. “You can see him now.”

Ignis follows the doctor into the room, where Prompto is hooked up to machines of all kinds. There’s a breathing mask on his face. “He was stabbed three times to the chest,” Ignis murmurs, repeating the information to himself without forming a real question.

“Two pierced his lungs,” the doctor says. “One was too high and shallow.”

[Ignis walks over to the bedside, and takes Prompto’s hand in his. It’s cold.](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/169825314717/seladorie-a-scene-from-a-royal-soulmate)

[Without anything else to do, to help, he softly starts rubbing warmth back into his palm.](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/169825314717/seladorie-a-scene-from-a-royal-soulmate)

Prompto lost a lot of blood. He was stabbed three times.

He was experimented on as a child.

Ignis’ medical knowledge is adequate. Between himself, Gladio, and Noctis, they need someone with enough training to keep them alive until proper medical attention can be received.

His medical knowledge is only so good because Ignis is an expert in physiology and anatomy. While Gladio strikes with brute force and huge weaponry, cutting down everything in its path, Ignis prefers more precise and less messy methodology.

These stab wounds were not precise. Sloppy, really.

But precision can be substituted with force, with numbers, with a variety of other things. Certainly, most people would have died with these wounds.

(But Prompto didn’t. He seems so normal most of the time, and Ignis has seen the reports, and he _knows_ , but he didn’t _know_.

The doctor thanks the gods but the gods were as far removed from this as they could ever be.)

A nurse comes in. “Count Scientia,” she says cautiously. “Perhaps you’d like to clean up a bit?”

He should get the blood off of him. “Yes. Yes, I think I shall.”

He retreats into the bathroom, leaving Prompto under the protective watch of the Kingsglaives in the room, accepting the clean clothes she hands to him before he goes.

“My lord,” says one of the Kingsglaive by the wall. If Ignis knows his name, it escapes him. “You need to leave the door part of the way open.”

Ignis sighs tiredly. “Of course.” He retreats into the bathroom, and closes it as much as he thinks they will silently allow. He hears no complaint, so he removes the borrowed jacket someone gave him at some point, dried, brown blood on the inside of the arms where he hadn’t wiped it off before he put it on. His own shirt was removed when they were checking him for injuries, before he realized what the pain was and what it signified.

There are marks from the others on his arms.

 _Iggy are you okay?_ in Noct’s messy scrawl.

 _Is Prompto okay?_ Gladio writes. _Dad told us that Prompto was hurt, and that you were fine and with him._

_Iggy?_

_IGGY_

_Iggs?_

_Just write anything_

There’s a soulmate pen on the counter of the sink, and Ignis takes it to write, _I’m fine. Prompto’s stable. Not well, but stable_

The response is instant, _oh thank fuck_ , in Gladio’s flowing cursive. _They’re still searching for the assassin. We’re in lockdown still._ Well, yes. They would still be in lockdown, so soon after the assassination, especially since the assassin was lost to the wind. And Ignis highly doubts he will be allowed to leave Prompto’s hospital room for quite some time--two people in one heavily guarded room is a much more efficient use of manpower than separating them.

He starts pulling down his sweatpants, and right above his knee he sacrifices some hairs on his leg for the good of having the bloodied cloth off of him. It stings, but not overly so.

The idea that Prompto lost this much blood and survived is far worse.

He turns the shower on as hot as he thinks he can stand, and steps in. Ignis can’t stop himself from watching the blood wash away down the drain. It’s not an unfamiliar sight--he’s had his fair share of injuries before.

This is just… much more blood than he’s used to.

He feels queasy.

Everything’s dizzy, for a moment, so he sits down in the shower to collect himself. Ignis quickly realizes that sitting down was a mistake--he hasn’t yet cleaned off all the blood from his legs, and the sight of the blood is much more distressing up close.

He picks up the soap and starts a lather. The layer of soap covers the blood, and the water that washes away comes out pink.

Ignis keeps at it until the water is no longer even a little pinkish, until the soap washes away as white, and by that time, the adrenaline has faded enough that he’s cold and shaky, so turns up the heat and the steam becomes thick enough to see.

He needs to… he needs to think. He needs a plan.

Prompto doesn't like his plans.

What can he plan for a man who doesn’t like to be planned for?

No. No planning. Not until he can talk to Prompto.

 _“...maybe not now,”_ Prompto said, in that second afternoon tea that they had, when Ignis asked if he would be comfortable being alone with him.

Right. There is that to contend with.

Alright. First order of business, Ignis notes on his mental list, ensure Prompto wakes up to a friendly and familiar face, and remove himself from the room.

He doesn’t want to leave. But he has to go.

 _We’re not alone, technically_ , he thinks, but immediately silences the thought. That is not within the spirit of Prompto’s request, and waking up, hurt and disoriented with Ignis at his bedside, might be too similar to that day long ago.

But who aside from Ignis? Ulric is the obvious choice, but it would be… nice, if either he or one of their soulmates could be there for Prompto when he wakes up. Ignis would never suffer through a trauma like this and wake up with unfamiliar faces. Without his soulmates.

They can’t have Noctis sitting at the bedside of another country’s Prince, especially not one they do not technically have peace with yet. And Gladio can’t leave Noctis’ side, not when there’s an assassin running about.

If none of them are present while Prompto’s recovering, and when he wakes up… it won’t help their relationship with him. However tattered and flimsy it might be. One of them should be there with him.

But it can’t be Ignis. For obvious reasons.

They so desperately want to show that he can be one of them. That he is one of them. To make up for how long when he clearly was _not_ one of them.

He’ll send for Ulric then, at least until the Ambassador gets out of lockdown. Prompto should appreciate that more than any of them, at least. Prompto sought them out, sought _Ignis_ out, but whether or not he wants anything to do with them at this point...

 _Deep breath_ , he tells himself, as he exits the shower. He dresses himself with the fresh pajamas the nurse left him and enters the room proper.

“Glaive,” Ignis says as he tries to place a name to the face, “Khara. Would you kindly have Glaive Ulric summoned here? I would like him to be Prince Prompto’s primary guard while he’s in recovery.” _Again_ went unsaid. “I also assume the Ambassador wants to visit as soon as possible, and situate her own guards.”

“Of course, my lord,” Glaive Khara says. A glaive by the door--Glaive Bellum--steps outside. Ignis takes the bedside chair again.

“I would also like to be escorted to join His Highness and his Shield,” Ignis says.

“Of course,” Glaive Khara says. “Count Scientia,” he begins and pauses. “Glaive Ulric is not available for guard duty.”

“He’s not?” Ignis asks. “Why not?”

“I do not know, ser,” the glaive says too quickly. Perhaps it’s concern for his fellow Glaive? Or… Glaive Khara is also from Galahd, like Ulric, if Ignis recalls correctly. Galahdians have a pretty tight-knit community in Insomnia. They might be friends.

He’ll have to inquire and see what’s happened to Ulric. But for the immediate issue… “When is lockdown going to end then? When can the Ambassador get here?”

Glaive Khara repeats his questions into his earpiece. He listens to whatever response he gets, and tells Ignis, “The lockdown will be over soon. The Ambassador and her guards will be escorted here at that time.”

Ignis closes his eyes. Re-evaluates his plan. “I see.”

“We are not to escort you anywhere in the meantime. Lord Amicitia has ordered that you are to remain here.”

Ignis gives up, and buries his face with his hands. “I see,” he says, muffled. His hands over his face almost covers the sudden, choking sensation crawling up his throat. His eyes burn. Ignis stays like that, elbows on his knees and face in his hands until the tears abide. “Very well. I am certain that Lord Amicitia has only our safety in mind.” Ignis folds his arms protectively over his chest. “I suppose... I will stay right here.”

...

Clarus wakes up to a knock that is quickly followed by the door opening, and he’s up and standing because they never wait for a response only when it’s an emergency.

“Sir,” says Crownsguard Monica Elshett. “There’s been an attack on the Niflheim Prince.”

“Is he alive?” Clarus demands. His mind races as to what to do if the answer is _no_. If the Prince is dead, their current negotiations won’t be salvageable. It wasn’t their guard on him, but it is still their security of the Citadel. This would… they have to avoid an all-out war again. That’s number one priority.

Clarus thinks of everything they gained in these negotiations, and what they would have to lose again to appease the New Empire.

They’ve gained so much, but none of that meant anything compared to peace.

They would have to do it. If the Niflheim Prince is dead, they would _have_ to. If that would even be enough. The Ambassador would be furious, and the Empress… it might not be enough for them. The best Clarus could hope for is that they would catch the one responsible in time. They’ll scream for Lucian blood. If Clarus can keep it to only the attacker, he would save _millions_.

“He’s still alive,” Monica says.

“ _Shit_ ,” Clarus says, rubbing the ache that’s already growing behind his eyes. “Thank the gods. _Fuck_.” They might still need to give up some of what they’ve gained to appease the Ambassador. Maybe just some trade agreements, not the land. And that’s only if they can catch the would-be assassin.

And if Prompto _stays_ alive. If he dies from his injuries after this, they’re back to the original plan for damage control.

“He’s not doing well,” Monica says. “He was stabbed three times.”

“ _Fuck_!” Clarus says, louder, throwing on his some respectable outer garb. “But he’s still alive? Is he stable?”

“He’s going into surgery right now,” Monica reports, waiting as he dons regimental robes over his sleep clothes. “I don’t know his condition.”

“Alive is a great start,” Clarus says. He could still die, but--Clarus will deal with that if it happens. So long as he lives, they can salvage most of their current peace treaty. “Who’s guarding him?”

“Drautos is on it. His most trusted glaives are there, particularly the ones the Prince is familiar with.”

“Good,” Clarus mutters, pulling on his shoes and rushing out of the room, Monica close behind. “Did they catch the attacker?”

“They did not,” Monica responds. “I’ve organized a sweep of the Citadel and of Insomnia. We’ve blocked the border of the city--”

“Someone could hide solely in Insomnia for months. _Years_ , if they know what they’re doing,” Clarus snaps. “We have to catch them. How did they get in?” He’d increased security after Prompto got in so far. They shouldn’t have gotten in but--was there something about how Prompto had snuck in that he’d missed?

“We’re doing everything we can. I’ve organized the searches myself,” Monica says firmly. “We will find the assassin, Clarus.”

“Thank you, Monica,” Clarus tells her empathetically. “I need--reports. Who was guarding him at the time? Are they alive?”

“The MT that was at his door is still alive,” Monica reports, and Clarus curses.

“An MT?” he asks. Great, it was an _MT_ that they need to speak to. “Can they even _speak_?”

“They can,” she says. “The MT is the one who alerted the Kingsglaive that there was an attack.”

“That’s… good. Good. Did it see anything?” They’ve never been able to interrogate an MT before. They self-destruct themselves upon capture, and try to take as many good soldiers with them when they do. How do you even question it? Can they even rely on its word?

“I don’t know. I’ll send someone to question the MT,” Monica says, speaking into her radio to do just that.

“Good. We need them identified. Why was there only one guard by the Prince’s door? What the hell is this New Empire _doing_?”

“Glaive Ulric was ordered to visit the Prince’s chambers just beforehand,” Monica says, and Clarus stops. “So there was a second guard.”

He frowns. “Was he there as a guard?” Ulric is no longer his primary guard, or part of the Niflheim Prince’s guard rotation at all. _Wait--_ “Was Ulric in the room _with_ him when he was attacked?”

“I… do not believe so, sir,” Monica says, brow creasing. “I haven’t heard that he was involved. Or injured or dead. Ulric is no longer his primary guard. I’m not sure if he was meant to be stationed there as a guard. From all accounts, it sounds like they were… friendly.”

Clarus considers that. “Too friendly, do you think?” It doesn’t necessarily have to mean anything--the two of them have spent a lot of time together over the past month. Perhaps Prompto missed Ulric. Maybe he wanted a guard he trusted. One that was human.

Clarus would tire of those metallic, expressionless faces very quickly, were it him.

But the alternative… while Prompto’s _indiscretions_ were not particularly of interest for Clarus. He’s his bond son, but… Clarus can’t claim any sort of parental role over the boy, especially not _now_. If Regis has his way, of course, it could upset their plans for a political marriage, but having affairs before marriage, before engagement, is normal for youth. If Prompto is involved with the Kingsglaive, and Nyx was in the room just before Prompto was attacked... it paints an ugly picture. One Clarus can’t dismiss just because he wants to believe better of Ulric.

Monica purses her mouth, straightening her back. “I have not spent enough time with either of them to say that, sir.”

Clarus keeps walking. “Locate Ulric for me. Make sure he’s still in Insomnia.” They reach the Prince’s chambers which is blocked off and crawling with Crownsguards. “Dustin!” he calls out, when he sees the man. “Have you finished searching the room?” He eyes the carefully sectioned-off black pool of MT blood that is smeared all the way to inside the room.

“Not yet, sir, but almost finished,” Dustin reports. “And please don’t enter the room.”

“Of course. Did the MT drag itself into the room?” he asks.

“Yes, it did. It’s currently receiving intense medical care from the Ambassador’s entourage and our own doctors.”

“How badly hurt is it? When can I get a report from it?” Clarus asks. “Did it see the attacker?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Dustin says. “But the MT was nearly cut in two. I don’t think it’ll be well enough to report for a while.” He pauses. “Though I really don’t know how MTs work.”

“Gods damn it all,” Clarus says. “I’ll speak to the Ambassador about it. Where is she?”

“Currently in lockdown with the King. She’s well-protected.”

“And furious, no doubt. At least Reggie is there to calm her, hopefully. She’s been told that the Prince is alive and in the best of care?”

“Of course, sir. She’s been demanding constant updates.”

Clarus frowns at him. “Those updates haven’t been too detailed, have they?”

“No, sir.”

“Sir Dustin--my Lord,” says a young Crownsguard, holding a bag that he is carefully concealing with a towel. “I’ve found something that you need to see.”

The Crownsuard lifts the towel enough so Clarus and Dustin can see inside the bag.

It’s a single, used condom.

“Have that tested immediately,” Clarus orders. “Be discreet about it.”

“At once,” the Crownsguard says, hiding the bag again.

“Dustin,” Clarus says lowly. “Glaive Ulric was in this room before the attack on the Prince.”

“Yes,” Dustin answers slowly. “The MT sent the request for his presence through one of my Crownguards.”

“Once Monica locates Ulric,” Clarus says. “He is to be arrested and detained. He needs to be questioned. Be prepared for him to fight. Have the Kingsglaive do it, just in case.” He pauses, before he adds, “Go through the second-in-command, Lazarus. I trust Drautos, but… he won’t let us arrest one of his men without a fight.”

“I’ll see to it, my lord,” Dustin says, after a moment’s pause.

“And Dustin,” Clarus says, grabbing his arm before he can dash off. “This must be kept _quiet_ . Especially with the New Empire. We _must_ find the person responsible, but if this leaks, they’re going to be braying for his blood. It’ll be difficult to save Ulric, if it gets to that point. We _have_ to avoid that. We’ll do a thorough investigation, and we can’t have _any_ leaks. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course, my lord,” Dustin whispers lowly. Clarus carefully considers his face, nods, and lets him dash off.

Clarus steps back from the chaos, and rubs the bridge of his nose.

Drautos will be a problem, once he hears.

A problem for Clarus to deal with.

One of many.

…

Luche stares at the Crownsguard. “Can you repeat that?”

“You are to arrest and detain Kingsglaive Nyx Ulric for questioning,” says the Crownsguard.

“On what charges?” Luche demands.

The Crownsguard’s face is stoic and without compassion, and Luche wants to punch in all his teeth. “That’s not information you need to know, Lazarus. Those are your orders, from Lord Amicitia.”

Luche carefully breathes in and out. “Understood, sir.”

“And Captain Drautos is not to know about this,” continues the Crownsguard.

Luche bites down a refusal. In a situation like this, he usually _has_ to run it by his Captain--has to make sure these orders are genuine, not some ploy to destabilize them--but it’s Crownsguard Dustin Ackers, and he’s one of the few who may act as a proxy for Lord Amicitia’s orders.

“Understood, sir,” Luche repeats, words stinging like acid on his tongue.

“Ulric might fight back,” Ackers tells him after a moment. “Be prepared.”

“Would it not help,” Luche says slowly, aiming for calm, rational, and unperturbed. “To know what Ulric is being accused of, to better prepare for arresting him?” What else could it be except for the attack on the Niff Prince? But--what did they think Nyx had to do with that? _Why_ did they think he had anything to do with that?

Ackers almost looks like he’s considering it, but then he answers, “No. Now go.

Annoyed, Luche warps out, intentionally startling Ackers in the process. “Well, you told me to _go_ ,” he mutters to himself. “Just following _orders_.”

And now he has to--fuck.

Luche doesn’t know what Nyx did. It has to have been serious. Nyx is one of their best, and the King likes him. The King calls him by his first name. Sure, Nyx is an irreverent little shit, but he gets a pass for that.

And the Niff kid likes him. Who’s a _Prince_ , so what would have--? Nyx wouldn’t _hurt_ him.

 _Nyx, what the fuck did you do?_ Luche thinks.

He has to find Nyx. Luche doubts he’s left the Citadel--doubts that Nyx even knows that he ought to consider leaving the Citadel. But Luche’ll will need help.

He can’t ask any of the Galahdian Kingsglaives.They can’t hear about this at all until they’ve gotten Nyx. Or they might have a rebellion on their hands. Galahdians are very, very loyal to each other. Luche’s always envied them for it, their sense of community and belonging--Tenebraeans do nothing of the sort. In the strict monarchic theocracy of Tenebrae, church and praying is the solution to all problems. Even here in Insomnia, where the Kings are chosen with the gods’ magic but not their voice, they mourn how the gods have abandoned them.

And Luche would never fit in, anyway, because he hated going to church. Even if he hadn’t chosen to become a Kingsglaive, which had a reputation of being comprised of frighteningly strange and powerful immigrants, the idea of borrowing the King’s godly power was obscene to many of his fellow Tenebraeans. _What makes you think you’re worthy of wielding the gods’ power_? one of them had asked him, when he signed up. _That power is meant only for the chosen line of Lucis. Their power will only burn you for your arrogance._

Luche did it anyway, was good enough to get accepted, and thrived with the King’s power. He suspects that his fellows hated that more than if he had failed.

Galahdians are not like that at all.

“Tredd,” Luche calls through his radio. “Axis. We’ve got a mission. Classified and urgent.”

They meet him quickly, Tredd smirking and ready for a fight, Axis more subdued but quickly on his heels.

“I apologize for calling you two to help me with this,” Luche tells them, and the smirk from Tredd’s face drops. Luche schools his face into neutrality, but if it isn’t already, then it won’t get any better. “We have orders to arrest and detain Nyx Ulric.”

Tredd and Axis stare at him. “What the fuck?” Tredd asks, making no attempt to hide his shock.

“Luche, what…?” Axis begins.

“What the _actual_ fuck?” Tredd demands loudly.

“Not so loud,” Luche hisses.

“Luche, are we really going to-- _arrest_ Nyx?” Tredd asks.

“Those are our orders,” Luche says.

“I can’t do that,” Axis says. “I don’t want to do that, Luche.”

“They’re our orders,” Luche repeats. He doesn’t regret requesting Tredd and Axis to help him, but he won’t blame them for hating him for it either. “If it’s not you two, it’ll be others. I’d rather ensure that Nyx is treated well.”

They both look sick, but Axis nods eventually, and Tredd quietly says, “ _Fuck_.”

“Do we know where he is?” Axis asks tentatively.

“Either somewhere in the Citadel,” Luche says. “Or his apartment.”

Tredd says nothing, which is unusual enough that Luche prompts, “Do you know where he is?”

Tredd stares him in the eye, and glances away first. “I think he went home,” Tredd answers. “After we got the MT to the medical wing. His shift ended.”

“Alright.” Luche answers, hating his job, his life, and everything that’s led up to this moment. “Let’s go check his home.”

…

Nyx is at home.

After his meeting with Drautos, all he wanted was to sleep this nightmare away. There’s nothing to be done except wait, to hear news of Prompto, for the assassin to be caught, to learn what will become of him if his involvement is ever learned.

All he wants now is food and sleep. He does just that and turns in early, dread licking at his dreams.

So Nyx is only mildly surprised when there’s a loud knock at his door.

“Nyx?” It’s Luche. Nyx didn’t think it would be Luche. “Are you home?”

“Yeah,” Nyx answers. “One sec.” He gets up, and spends only a moment too long bracing himself.

He opens the door.

It’s Luche, accompanied by Tredd and Axis. All fully-uniformed, tense, and grim-faced.

Nyx tries to smile. “Hey, Luche. What’s up?”

“Nyx…” Luche says. “I’m here to place you under arrest.”

“Ah,” Nyx says. They all stand there. “Let me grab my jacket.”

“That’s it?” Tredd asks, when Nyx moves away from the door to do just that. “You’re just… going to give up, like that?”

“You want to fight me, man?” Nyx asks, raising a brow at him. He rises up, but he can’t muster up the energy for the bravado. “Fuck fighting. Let’s just get on with it.”

They let him gather some things. He can’t take his go bag, not with his weapons in it, but he pulls together a new go bag they’ll let him keep.

“Just like that?” Axis asks. “You’re just… gods, Nyx, what did you do?”

Nyx doesn’t know how to answer that. He did nothing wrong, but… that would likely be a matter of opinion. And for most people, it may not even matter if he was guilty or not. Like Drautos said, all they really needed was someone to blame.

“Did you attack the Niflheim Prince?” Luche asks.

“No,” Nyx says immediately. “No, I didn’t.”

Luche breathes out. “Alright. I believe you, but… Nyx, I have to.”

“Yeah,” Nyx says, smiling sadly. “I know. Come on, Luche, don’t drag it out.”

“Nyx Ulric,” Luche says, voice strong and authoritative. “I am placing you under arrest.”


	14. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Prompto sleeps, the world keeps moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll probably work on the sentinel au after this and maybe something else for fun

The Lucians offer her a room to get some rest in, but Tinia refuses. They offer her some food, so she doesn’t wait on an empty stomach, but she refuses.

They offer the same to King Regis, who accepts only the food. It’s a move to pacify his guards, that much is obvious. He leaves it untouched and cooling save for the tea.

Tinia disapproves.

Several hours in, they finally offer her slippers, as she’s kicked off her own shoes and pacing anxiously around the room.

The slippers, she accepts.

The King does too.

What they know is: there was an attack, and Prompto was hurt. The assailant has yet to be caught. It’s probably lucky that Tinia was meeting King Regis for an… informal discussion of peace terms at the time, and not next to Prompto’s room, but it’s been almost a full day they’ve been on lockdown. No confirmation of his well-being has yet been given.

As long as she doesn’t retreat to the room in the royal suite that has been designated as _hers_ for the time being, the King doesn’t either. It’s a tense and unwelcome interruption of their discussion of potential peace treaties by marriage.

“If he dies…” Tinia begins, a couple of times. “If he dies in Insomnia…”

“I quite understand,” the King says gravely. Prompto is still alive, they know, but any promises to keep him that way run the risk of being unfulfilled. Which would certainly make the situation _worse_ , even if Tinia wishes briefly for reassurance that _Proshka_ is going to be fine.

No one here will give her that brief relief because it could backfire on the Lucians, and her MTs still are not yet human enough to understand complex concepts like fear and comfort.

“Lady Ambassador,” says one of the Crownsguard. “Your Majesty. Lord Amicitia has lifted the lockdown.”

“You will take me to see Prompto at once,” Tinia demands.

“Is he well enough for visitors?” the King asks quietly behind her.

Tinia doesn’t wait to hear their responses. She knows where the medical wing is in the Citadel, and if nothing else, she can search the entire wing herself if they won’t take her to Prompto. She walks straight out of the room past the Crownsguards and she hears them scramble to follow her.

Her MTs, of course, do not hesitate to match her step. A small rush of gratitude for them swells in her, mixing in all too soon with the panic that makes her feel thin and sick.

“My lady,” a crownsgaurd calls out, running to catch up with her. “His Highness is this way.”

 _Finally_ , she thinks, as she follows the Crownsguard to a different segment of the medical wing.

There’s a room with two Crownsguard standing outside of it, and they open the door for them as they approach. “In here, my lady,” and Tinia walks into the room.

Prompto is alive. Tinia repeats that to herself as she stares at his still, small form on the bed, because that’s what matters most.

“How is he?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Stable,” says Ignis Scientia, who Tinia didn’t see sitting by Prompto’s bedside. “It will be a rough recovery, but he’ll recover.”

Tinia breathes out and falls more than walks to the bed. “Oh, _Proshka_ ,” she says, tracing a finger on what part of his face isn’t covered by an oxygen mask. There’s a movement on the other side of the bed she spies from the corner of her eye. She turns her head briefly, realizing just a second later that she saw Scientia pull his hand back from where he was holding Prompto’s.

She doesn’t mention it.

Ignis clears his throat. “If lockdown is over, I’ll take my leave,” he says, standing up from his chair.  

“You can stay, if you want,” Tinia says. She’s going to have to leave Prompto soon. She’s going to have to yell at somebody. Maybe the King. Because the assassin wasn’t caught, and Prompto almost died, and still could die, so this is a problem that she has to leave to deal with.

She wants to stay glued to his side, but she can’t yell at people in his hospital room.

There’s no rush, though. None of them are going anywhere now, after all.

“If Her Ladyship deems it appropriate,” Ignis concedes. There’s something odd about that, the phrasing, but it slips from her mind as easily as water as Prompto painfully moans in his sleep.

“Oh, sweetie,” Tinia murmurs, brushing his hair away from his forehead.

She stares at his face, and worries how to send the news to Aranea, if she even should until his continued health is certain. Aranea’s hot-headed, and she _would_ fly all the way to Insomnia for her brother. Tinia needs to be careful for when and how she delivers news of the events.

“These events will not be publicized immediately,” she says to the room, “correct?”

“Not if you don’t wish so, my lady,” says the Lord Amicitia by the door behind her. She didn’t hear him come in.

“If I am to deliver this news to the Empress,” Tinia says, making her voice as strong as she isn’t right now, as she turns around, “you won’t want her to learn first by the news.”

Amicitia’s face is grim. Despite the gravity of the situation, she feels that this man, at least, will listen to her. “I understand.”

Tinia breathes out. “Good.” She hasn’t slept in two days. Not while the lockdown’s been active. She’s exhausted, she needs to sleep before she does anything. “What’s the status on the attacker?” she asks instead.

“We still haven’t found him,” Amicitia says, voice as toneless as an MT giving a report. Tinia briefly thinks that he must not have gotten any sleep for the past couple days either. “We’re searching. We would like permission to question your MT.”

“What?” Tinia asks. “Why?”

“The MT that was guarding the Prince’s room,” Amicitia says, and in her exhausted state, it takes Tinia a moment to remember that the _Prince_ means _Prompto_. She needs sleep. She can’t sleep. “The one who called the attention of our Kingsglaive. It was injured, but gave a report with a description of the attacker.”

“ZRX,” she says, recalling who was on duty with Prompto that night. “Is he alright?”

“We’re not sure,” Amicitia answers, slowly. “We don’t know how to… heal MTs.”

“Well, where is he?” Tinia demands, standing up. Standing up does very little to lessen the distance between herself and Amicitia. “You mean you’ve had one of my men injured and untreated this entire time?” Prompto’s going to be alright--he has to be, and he’s getting the best of care. She can leave him for a spell, to make sure ZRX is well.

“He’s in another room,” Amicitia says, “please, come with me. Ignis and the Crownsguard will stay with His Highness.”

Ignis murmurs something affirmative, and Tinia stands up and follows Amicitia out.

They go to a room that’s secluded in the medical bay, designed to be overlooked and unnoticed. Much like Prompto’s room, but lacking the positional advantage for guards.

ZRX is in the room, sitting on the bed, which he awkwardly fits into with his armor.

“Why is he still in his armor?” Tinia asks.

Amicitia asks, “They can take them off?”

“Well, they can _now_ ,” she begins, before rushing over to ZRX and ignoring the others in the room completely. “ZRX, are you alright?”

“I am at 34% functionality,” ZRX reports.

Tinia frowns. That’s not what she meant, and usually this would be an opportunity to explain the difference between physical status and well-being, but… this is unfortunately not the time. But, “Will you return to 100% functionality with the appropriate repairs?”

ZRX doesn’t respond. The doctor on the other side of the room says, “His legs were sliced through nearly to the bone from behind, and suffered a strike to the chest, which thankfully his armor mostly protected him from. We don’t know what repairs are possible for MTs, but we doubt he’ll ever be able to walk again.”

“We believe the injuries to his legs were from a sword,” Amicitia tells her lowly. “The one to his chest, a dagger.”

“It went right through his armor?” Tinia asks. “Who could--normal people can’t do that.”

“No,” Amicitia agrees. “They can not.”

The agreement was given too readily, or his voice his somber, but whatever it is, sudden realization makes her feel cold and brittle. “I thought the attacker hadn’t been caught.”

“I--” Amicitia begins, before clearing his throat. “We have a suspect.”

“Who?” Tinia demands.

“I cannot reveal that at this time,” Amicitia says. “We need to gather evidence. It’s only a suspect.”

“ _Who did it_?” Tinia demands again.

“We don’t know,” Amicitia says. “We only have a suspect. Evidence we find may lead elsewhere, and we can’t say with certainty who was the attacker.”

“But to injure a MagiTek soldier so, to pierce his armor, who else could it be but one of your enhanced Kingsglaive warriors?” Tinia demands. She realizes as she speaks that she hasn’t seen a Kingsglaive soldier, easy to spot with their distinct uniform, this entire time. Only those with the Crownsguard uniform.

That… that indicates trouble much worse than she ever could have imagined.

“Have your soldiers been compromised?” she asks, quietly, but it’s too loud in the much more quiet room.

“I assure you, Your Ladyship, that we are exploring every lead that we have and taking every precaution,” the Shield tells her. His spine is straight, and his gaze steady. “We _will_ get to the bottom of this. You have my word.”

Tinia breathes in. She _wants_ to know, to make certain that justice is served, but--it must be the right person. Whoever did this to Prompto and ZRX must be caught.

“ZRX,” she says, going to his side. She reaches out and lays her hand gently on his shoulder. “Would you like us to help you out of your armor?”

“I--do not know if that would be conducive for my injury,” ZRX replies. Tinia looks up to the doctor, for his opinion.

He says, “We hadn’t known that was a possibility. Removing the armor would give us greater access, and make transportation easier, so--if you can, then please, yes. Remove his armor.”

“Alright,” Tinia says, and begins reaching for the smooth, hidden, release buttons in the armor that comes with the ease of practice. ZRX is, fortunately, one of their less modified MTs that remain after their revolution. His body is still human at its core, none of his armor had been grafted onto him through the use of the Empire’s daemonic engineering.

He doesn’t look quite human, even without the armor. His haphazard buzzcut, meant for military hygiene and efficiency, does nothing to help this image. Especially uneven and poorly done as it is, especially compared to Amicitia’s,

And thankfully, unlike Blanket, he barely looks anything like Prompto, or Tinia would have had some questions to answer herself. ZRX was of an entirely different egg group, based on an altered genome. Blanket originated from a different egg group from Prompto’s as well, but their genomic base have similar foundations.

It’s not much of a concern, typically. Most of the others from Prompto’s egg group are long dead and gone.

“May I assist?” the doctor asks from the other side of the bed. “We also need to make sure we brace him properly before we remove all the armor.”

“Yes… well, if that’s alright with ZRX,” Tinia says, waiting for ZRX, who nods. “Please find these releases hidden in the joints of the armor, like so,” she says, demonstrating with her finger hooked halfway into the metal.

“Ah, I see,” the doctor says, and starts on the metal clasps on the legs. Together, they quickly get ZRX out of his armor, allowing him to relax and for the doctors and nurses to situate him into a brace. He ends up propped up, fully supported to prevent pressure on his back.

“ZRX, sweetie,” she says, “you were guarding Prompto. Did you see anything?”

He nods, red eyes flickering from Amicitia to her. “Yes. I saw the intruder.”

Amicitia clears his throat. “The MT--ZRX… provided to us a description of the attacker when he initially alerted us of His Highness’ condition.”

“Yes,” ZRX says. “Male, five foot nine, one hundred ninety pounds, dark hair, skin tone #14.”

“That is what he told us before,” Amicitia said. “We would like the opportunity to ask him for further questions.”

“I understand,” Tinia says. “ZRX, are you willing to answer his questions?”

“Yes,” ZRX says. This isn’t good--he’s being too agreeable. Tinia needs to make sure he knows that he can refuse, needs to check in with him because he must be feeling terrible, but Amicitia dives in.

“The description you gave us--what’s your margin of error?” he asks.

“The margin of error?” ZRX repeats.

“Yes,” Amicitia says. “Meaning, his height--are you sure he was five nine?”

ZRX stares at Amicitia, but at a point slightly beyond him. “I do not understand.”

Amicitia frowns, looks to her, and then the doctor. This is atypical, and Tinia doesn’t know how to proceed. Usually, when given repetitive questions, the MTs simply repeat the same information… “Could the attacker have been, perhaps, an inch taller? Does your… standard deviation allow for a few inches?”

“My standard deviation,” ZRX repeats again. “I do not have a standard deviation.”

“Is your suspect taller or shorter?” Tinia asks, frowning.

Amicitia replies after a moment of consideration. “We need to determine what the… parameters are, for the information we’ve been given. How certain ZRX is,” Amicitia says. “It’s standard procedure, to determine how reliable the witness is.”

“MTs are very _adept_ at identifying individuals,” Tinia says, bitter in a way that only years of desperate hiding and running cultivates.

“But surely he can provide a _range_ for what the height could have been? And for weight, especially,” Amicitia continues. “It might be easier to describe the body type of the attacker, rather than precise weight, as that’s difficult for anyone to ascertain.”

ZRX is quiet. Tinia prompts him, “ZRX, do you have an answer for him?”

“I do not,” he says finally, quietly.

“You don’t?” Tinia asks, surprised.

“I am 34% functionality,” ZRX says as if an explanation. “I cannot guarantee that my observations are infallible.”

“I see,” Amicitia says.

“I have never received a report from an MT that I had cause to doubt,” Tinia says.

“His legs were nearly cut off,” Amicitia says. “Surely MTs suffer the effects of physical damage? Or did you scientists create them to not even feel pain?”

“Not _my_ scientists,” Tinia protests. She swallows hard. “They feel pain.”

Amicitia lowers his head, solemn. “We cannot limit our search or suspicions to only those who perfectly match ZRX’s descriptions, then.”

“No,” Tinia says. “I suppose you cannot.”

She watches ZRX’s face, which is--not conveying any human emotion that she can recognize.

“Is there anything more you need?” she asks.

“Only if there is anything ZRX would like to add that he didn’t mention in his earlier report,” Amicitia says, taking a step back.

“No, sir. My report was detailed to my fullest capabilities,” ZRX responds.

“Very well. My lady, would you like to be escorted back to His Highness’ room?”

“In a bit,” Tinia says. She wants to, but… ZRX’s expression. She needs to help him first.

Amicitia nods, and not all of his Crownsguard peel away from their stations to join him as he departs. The rest remain, presumably to escort her to wherever she needs to be later.

“Sweetie,” she begins, trying to pierce through whatever has ZRX so terrified. “What’s wrong?”

“When will I be decommissioned?” ZRX asks.

That’s not what Tinia expected. “What?”

“I have provided all information asked of me, and I have a margin of error,” ZRX says blankly. His red eyes are staring at her, but not really seeing. “I cannot be repaired. I await orders regarding my decommissioning.”

“ _Decommissioning_ ,” Tinia repeats. “ZRX. We’re not going to _decommission_ you.”

“I have outlived my usefulness,” ZRX says.

“That doesn’t matter. You don’t need to be useful to be worthy of _living_ ,” Tinia says more forcefully. She frowns, and turns to the Crownsguard. “Please leave. I’ll call you back when I need you.”

Neither one of the Crownsguard hesitate. They look deeply uneasy, and Tinia doesn’t blame them.

When they’ve left, presumably to just outside the room, Tinia reaches for ZRX’s hand and gently squeezes it.

“ZRX, listen to me,” she says. “You’re safe. No one’s going to decommission you. If you can’t work, you can--” she struggles to find a word that ZRX would understand “--retire.”

“Retire?” ZRX asks. “I do not understand.”

“When people retire, it means they cease to work but continue pursuing what makes them happy,” Tinia explains carefully. “Soldiers that are injured in battle may be honorably discharged to their retirement.”

ZRX’s face breaks its unnatural stillness, confusion leaking through. He frowns, “What makes me happy?”

“Yes,” Tinia says. “That’s up to you, but--like your stargazing. And coeurls.”

“But what would be the purpose?” ZRX asks. “What would be my purpose?”

“Whatever you want it to be,” Tinia says firmly. “There’s certainly work we could find for you, if you wanted, but we will support you in whatever you choose. And you don’t need to decide now. Just know that you’re safe, no one’s going to hurt you, or decommission you, and you just need to focus on healing."

ZRX doesn’t look like he entirely believes her, face unmoved and stoic.

That’s alright. It’ll take time. Rehabilitating the MTs was never going to be an easy task. Tinia didn’t agree to take it on because it was _easy_.

...

Nyx restlessly paces his cell, as he has for the past day.

After brought to his cell, his friends--his fellow Kingsglaives long since left, replaced only with Crownsguard. They must not trust the Kingsglaive to put their personal involvement aside and do their _jobs_ , which… well, why send them to arrest Nyx in the first place?

And if they sent Luche… Nyx wonders if Drautos knows yet. The Captain probably would have put up more of a fuss, given him more warning, in case Nyx chose to flee. He wouldn’t because he can’t think of any way that wouldn’t make the situation _worse_ , and nowhere he could go for very long. With an treaty between Lucis and Niflheim, presuming that the peace talks are still _on_ , there would be nowhere in Eos he could hide.

Nyx tries to reassure himself that he made a rational choice, not fighting, but it’s difficult to recall that while trapped like a wild animal in a too small cage.

And he still doesn’t know how Prompto’s doing. Nyx knew he was stable, before he had left for home the other day, but there’s nothing to do in prison but worry. And if Prompto dies… no one will be able to vouch for Nyx, then.

The Crownsguard won’t answer his questions, either. He can ask them however much he wants about Prince Prompto, but they’re grim-faced and don’t answer.

(He knows them, and they him. The Kingsglaive doesn’t work with the Crownsguard often, but often enough to make this even worse than it already is.)

Nyx hopes Prompto’s okay. He wants him to be, beyond what it would mean for Nyx’s own well-being.

He is also concerned about his own well-being. Nyx has to be; if Drautos can’t help him, no one else will be able to.

But there’s nothing Nyx can do. Not trapped like this…

 _I shouldn’t have let them arrest me_ , he thinks, desperately, _I could have been_ doing _something, even on the run. I could be tracking down the real attacker._ Anything.

He sits down on the cot, and buries his face in his hands.

Drautos will do what he can, but Nyx can’t call on him. It might interrupt whatever he’s working on--or might cast the Captain into suspicion himself. 

Same with his comrades. Given that there aren’t any Kingsglaive guarding him, it might already be too late…

Aside from the Kingsglaive, who else can he turn to? He doesn’t have anyone else. The only other meaningful connection Nyx’s made at the Citadel is Prompto, but neither the Ambassador or his soulmates would entertain the idea of listening to Nyx’s appeal now. Prince Noctis and his soulmates are going to hand Nyx off to the New Empire and watch him hang without batting an eye.

Nyx has no one he can ask for help. No other friends, no favors he can call in for something like _this_ \--

_Wait a fucking second._

Didn’t Prince Noctis tell him that if he ever needed anything, he could ask him?

 _That was for bringing Prompto in safely_ , Nyx tells himself, heart racing at the prospect of even the hope of a _plan_. _It’s got to be off the table now_.

But he said it. The Prince told him that if he needed anything in the future, Nyx could ask him.

It probably doesn’t mean anything now. Not with what’s happened. If he asks, the Prince will probably laugh in his face.

But Nyx doesn’t have anything else.

He turns the idea over in his mind, trying to examine it for anyway it could make his circumstances _worse_ , or if there are any options available to him that don’t involve trying to call on the Crown Prince. Nyx comes up with nothing in both regards.

He stands up, and heads over to the door, and knocks. The window slides open, and he sees the face of the Crownsguard soldier. “Arcus,” Nyx says, licking his lips, thinking of the best way to make his request. “A while ago, Prince Noctis said I could ask him for anything in the future,” he says slowly. His heart is thudding in his chest, and his hands may be shaking. No one can see, but he hasn’t been this panicked in a long time. “I would like to--request an audience with him. Please.”

Arcus frowns. “Even if that’s true, I doubt His Highness is going to keep to his word to our prime suspect, Ulric.”

“That’s one thing, if he doesn’t honor it, but please pass it on. All I’m asking you to do is to pass on the request. Whether I actually get an audience can be up to him.” Arcus seems almost swayed. “Please, man, I’m begging you. My life is on the line, I need to talk to _someone_.”

Arcus holds his gaze for a moment, then sighs. “Alright, alright… I’ll see what I can do, Ulric. But I’m just going to pass on the request, don’t expect any miracles.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Nyx says, relieved. “Thank you.”

Nothing may come of it, but he has a shred of hope with him as he sits back down on his cot and waits.

…

Noctis buries himself into Iggy’s sheets, surrounding himself with the smell of Iggy and home and coffee. With the cover over his head, he can pretend that he’s not ignoring his work and responsibilities. He means he can’t see the Crownsguard in the room either, watching over him.

It’s too light out for this to be anything other than dodging his work, fallen to the inexplicable exhaustion that pulls at his bones and leaves him unable to leave bed. And makes contemplating doing _anything_ like a monumental task, let alone _work_.

 _Stupid depression_ , he thinks, wishing he wasn’t such a failure of a Prince who can’t even get up and get his work done.

He may even fall asleep at some point, but it blends seamlessly with consciousness that he’s not quite aware of how much time passes until the door finally clicks open.

“Iggy?” Noctis says, voice croaking a bit. As he sits up, he worries for a moment that it’s only another Crownsguard only there to take over the shift.  

But he hears, “Noct?” in Iggy’s smooth voice, and sees him as the covers fall away from his head. “What are you doing here?”

“Gladio’s working,” Noctis says. “And I’m--not.”

“I can see that,” Iggy says. “Clava,” he adds to the Crownsguard.

“Count Scientia,” greets Clava.

“Would you grant us some privacy?” Iggy asks.

“I’m afraid, sir, that I have strict orders to stay in the same room as His Highness at all times,” says Clava, which are orders that Noct has heard before. He pulls the covers up against his ears. “We cannot guarantee that there won’t be an another attack.”

“Ah, yes,” Ignis says. “Of course. Well, then, please excuse me for my lack of discretion.” The bed dips with Iggy’s weight, and Noctis rolls onto his back and pulls down the covers so Iggy can kiss him as he lays down across him.

Noctis stretches his arm out next to the pillow as he relaxes with Iggy’s weight on top of him, but Iggy breaks off the kiss after a moment to roll down next to him.

“How long have you been here, Noct?” he asks, glasses pushed against his face and nose by the pillow in a way that looks uncomfortable.

“A while,” Noct says, reaching forward to gently tug Iggy’s glasses off his face. He lifts his head up so he can, and Noct places the glasses on the nightstand.

Ignis sighs into his pillow, shuffling his legs to kick off his shoes off onto the floor. “It has been a trying couple of days for all of us.”

“Yeah,” Noctis says, “lockdown ended--” crap, how long has it been? Sun’s on the other side of the wall, so “--this morning. Where’ve you been for so long?”

“Prompto’s room,” Ignis mutters. “I couldn’t leave due to the lockdown, and then the Ambassador insisted that I stay. So stay I did, until Cor took over.”

“Is he okay?” Noctis asks. He must be alive, if they need people in the room with him, but they’ve heard so little. The Crownsguards with them either don’t know or can’t say anything.

And the three of them are forbidden to write to each other in times of lockdown.

If they’re kidnapped or held hostage--well, they can never know who else might be able to see that information. Or if any potential responses are through coercion. And even in cases like today, where they were all accounted for, soulmarks were too much of an unnecessary risk of information leaks for even a check-in to be permitted.

“He’s still alive,” Ignis says, “so he’ll probably remain alive, at this point.”

“Thank Shiva,” Noctis breathes out. “Do they think he’s gonna be okay, though?”

“We can only hope,” Ignis says, which isn’t much of an answer at all. Noctis wonders how badly injured Prompto was. Iggy clears his throat. “He was stabbed three times in the chest. It’s lucky he survived at all. It’s still a question of how well he’ll be when he wakes up.” That’s something, something Noct can work with, but Iggy adds on, “If he wakes up.”

“They don’t know if he’ll wake up?” Noctis asks.

“From what I understand,” Ignis says, closing his eyes. “They expect him to wake up. But until he does, his prognosis is still uncertain.”

“Shit,” Noctis says.

“Indeed,” Ignis agrees.

There’s a lot more to ask about still, like _what happens to the peace treaty if Prompto doesn’t wake up_ as one of the most concerning, but Noctis can guess at that answer well enough.

Ignis’ eyes are closed, a crease of worry in his brow, so Noctis reaches up to smooth it out with his thumb. Iggy sighs, and scooches closer to pull Noct against his chest.

Noctis dozes off like that, but wakes up slowly when Ignis speaks.

“... here himself?” he’s saying. Noctis pretends to be asleep.

“Ulric is--my lord, Ulric is currently not able to come here himself.”

“But why--that’s preposterous.” That _is_ strange. Ulric’s never requested to speak with Noctis, and certainly a Kingsglaive wouldn’t send a messenger to do so. “Ulric at this point should know he can come here directly. It’s not as if we don’t see enough of him to recognize him on sight.”

“The Kingsglaive has been potentially compromised,” the Crownsgaurd said, and this gets Noctis up.

“What?” Noctis demands. “What do you mean, ‘potentially’? Do we not _know_ this?” Noctis is an idiot, only _Crownsguard_ have been guarding him since the lockdown became official, he hasn’t seen a Kingsglaive _since_ , obviously something is _horribly_ wrong--!

And why it was _Cor_ sent to watch over Prompto to relieve Ignis. That would have to mean--the entire Kingsglaive--?

“All I am authorized to say at this time is that Nyx Ulric has been arrested as a potential suspect for the attempted murder of Prince Prompto,” the Crownsguard Arcus says.

“What the _fuck_?” Ignis says, too softly for the Crownsguards to hear.

“And the Kingsglaive?” Noctis demands.

“Under investigation. Only Ulric has been arrested.”

“I presume,” Ignis says, voice strong and carrying, “that this is information that the Ambassador and her entourage do _not_ know? And will not know until we have _very_ carefully investigated?”

“You presume correctly, my lord,” says Crownsguard Arcus. “Lord Amicitia does not want politics to… rush an investigation to a premature judgement.”

“I see,” Noctis says. If Ulric--why would Ulric--it didn’t make any _sense_ , and Noct knows it never does, and he’s been trained to be aware that _anyone_ could potentially be a spy if the circumstances align, but _Ulric_?

He’d been so good with Prompto, though. So patient and understanding, even when they weren’t...

 _Maybe a required quality for a spy_ , Noctis wonders bitterly. _Shit_. If Ulric did it, how would Prompto ever recover from such a betrayal?

 _If he wakes up_ , whispers a quiet voice in Noctis’ mind.

“And Ulric wants an--an audience with me?” Noctis asks. “Why?”

“What could that hope to accomplish, at this point?” Ignis murmurs.

Crownsguard Arcus clears his throat. “Forgive me, Your Highness, if I have been provided false information, but Ulric claimed that you--once made him an offer, that he could come to you if he needs anything. If this was a lie, I can return to my regular duties and we can ignore his request--”

“What? No, I didn’t,” Noctis says. He frowns, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t, did he?

“Your Highness,” says Crownsguard Clava by the wall. “You did make an offer to Ulric. Outside of Prince Prompto’s chambers, shortly after Ulric successfully recovered him for medical attention. I was present as your accompanying guard at the time.”

“Oh, shit, you’re right,” Noctis says. “ _Shit_.”

“Noct?”

“Fuck. Iggy, since I said it, I’ve gotta--I should at least go listen to what he wants to say.”

“You’re not beholden to a simple offer of assistance--”

“No, Iggy, this was a _favor_ ,” Noct says, sitting up. “If I fail to keep my word, my word as a Prince won’t mean _anything_. Uh, thanks, Clava.”

“You’re welcome, Your Highness.”

“Arcus, can you take me to where he is?” Noctis asks, shuffling off the bed. Finally, something he feels like he can do.

He doesn’t know what Ulric could possibly want to say to him, or if he really thinks that Noctis can--or would--help him now, but he’ll keep his word.

Maybe he’ll even be able to ask him why.

“Noctis, think about this a moment--you can’t question Ulric, not at this point,”  Ignis says, getting up as well. “You must leave that for Clarus and the Marshal, for those trained in interrogation. You can listen to what Ulric has to say to preserve the weight of your word, but that is _all_.”

“Right. Yeah. Listening only. But if he says something, the conversation will be recorded, right?” Noctis asks, turning to Arcus.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Great, so, let’s go.”

“Wait, Noct,” Iggy says again, pulling his glasses on and grabbing his shoes. “Someone should come with you, or we should speak to Clarus, or perhaps Cor about this beforehand--”

“They might stop me from speaking to him at all,” Noctis says, going to reasonable and maybe sounding a bit annoyed. “And that wouldn’t be keeping my word, would it? And as you said, Ig, I’m just going to listen to what he has to say. That’s all.”

“They would certainly prevent you from speaking to him,” Ignis mutters. He sighs and taps his fingers thoughtfully against his chin, and thank the _gods_ Iggy wants answers just as badly as Noctis does. He’s just way better at hiding it. “Just listening.” His eyes flick to Arcus. “And Arcus, will you--?”

“If Lord Scientia believes it unwise, Your Highness,” Arcus says, “or if perhaps we should seek permission from the Shield or the Marshal--”

“Not _unwise_ , precisely,” Ignis says, “ _reckless_ , perhaps. But Clarus and Cor would certainly prevent us from hearing from what Nyx has to say.”  
  
“And we do want to hear what he has to say,” Noctis jumps in. “So let’s go. We’ll deal if it upsets them, don’t worry about that, Arcus. Besides, with Iggy there, I’ll have appropriate supervision before going to speak to a potential murderer.”

Ignis huffs because he’s dramatic like that, and follows them out all the same.

...

Noctis has been to the prison in the Citadel only a handful of times, and never without Clarus or Monica. His presence is ordinarily an observational one, when they question some low-level spy or failed assassin.

He’s never been allowed to speak to a prisoner himself before. Probably wouldn’t be this time either, if the Crownsguard hadn’t gone straight to him and if Iggy wasn’t always pretty ready for anything.

They’ve put Ulric in an interrogation room, his wrists and hands completely bound and covered, chained to the table. The restraints have glowing runes on them, to prevent him from using any of the King’s magic. Its magic gives Noctis the chills, goosebumps rising slightly on his arms.

“Your Highness,” Ulric says, standing up out of his chair and getting no farther than the chains allow and finding himself surrounded by the weapons the guards and Ignis draw. “ _Shit_ , I was just--I was just standing up to salute the Prince, give me a break.”

“At ease,” Noctis says, to everyone in the room so Ulric can sit and the guards can put away their weapons. “Ulric.”

“Your Highness,” Ulric says wearily. “Thank you for coming to see me. I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“I gave you my word,” Noctis says, mimicking his father’s tone and presence as best he can. “And so I’m here to listen to what you have to say.” Ulric breathes in, and breathes out without saying anything. “So, speak,” Noctis prompts.

“Yeah,” Ulric says. “Look, I--I didn’t do it.”

Noctis blinks at him, and his face is earnest and pleading but… does he really expect Noctis to be able to do anything with that?

“No, I mean--I know it looks bad,” Nyx says. “Really bad. But I didn’t do it, and I would never hurt Prompto. _Never_.”

“Do you have any proof?” Noctis asks.

Nyx takes a breath, and Noctis sees the muscles in his arm spasm. “ZRX saw me leave. And I only came back after I heard there’d been an attack.”

“ZRX?” Noctis asks.

“Uh, the MT,” Nyx says.

“Oh,” Noctis says, remembering that the two MTs in the throne room did have names. They were… Bubbles and Blanket, or something weird like that? “Right.” Wait. “ _Leave_? Why were you there in the first place? You’re not assigned as Prompto’s guard.”

Nyx is silent for a moment. Gathering his words, Noctis assumes. That’s what he would do in his situation. “He requested my presence. He, uh, went through the MTs.” His expression is strained. Noctis doesn’t have to tell him that, well, an MT’s word isn’t going to mean that much.

So he asks instead, “Why did Prompto request your presence?” and…

Nyx’s face does a weird thing. It’s a cross between a grimace, a flush, and quite a lot of guilt.

“He wanted to say goodbye,” Nyx says, and even Noctis can tell that’s not the end of it, but Nyx doesn’t continue.

“You’re going to have to give me more than that,” Noctis says, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms, like he has all the time in the world and Nyx is still wasting them.

“We said goodbye, since he’s planning on leaving for Niflheim with the Ambassador soon,” Nyx says flatly and devoid of anything convincing, “we talked and everything was fine when I left. He, uh. Asked about how to talk to Count Scientia.”

 _Oh_ , Noctis thinks, _that’s a good thing_ , but Ignis’ voice drawls out from behind him. “Ulric, I never thought you would lie so _poorly_ on such a serious subject. Your life is at stake here, after all.”

Nyx goes silent again, which is telling in and of itself. After a bit too long, Noctis scoots back in his chair, “Well, Ulric. I said I’d help you with anything you need in the future, but if you’re not going to give me anything I can use to help you, or even _why_ I should help you, then I’m just going to--”

“Sex,” Nyx says. He leans forward on the table on his elbows. He says in a slightly hoarse voice, “We had sex.”

Noctis brain stops short of that. “You and Prompto?”

“Yes,” Nyx answers softly.

“ _What_?” Noctis asks.

“He wanted to say _goodbye_ ,” Nyx says.

Noctis stares. There are shadows under Nyx’s eyes, and he’s staring at Noctis so imploringly. “ _What_?"

“What, do you want _details_?” Nyx snaps.

" _No_ ,” Noctis protests, “just--what am I supposed to do with that?”

“That’s why I was in his room!” Nyx says. “And why I wasn’t going to hurt him!”

“He wanted to have sex with you?” Noctis asks. “But he’s--” Traumatized. A rape victim. Tortured from since he was a child. And never, even when Noctis and Gladio had their moments of success with Prompto, did they think _sex_ was anywhere near the table.

 _Not sex_ , Noctis thinks, staring at the raw emotion on Nyx’s face, bared for all in the room to see. The Crownsguards within Noct’s line of vision are carefully looking slightly away from Nyx.  _Trust_. Prompto liked Gladio and Noctis well enough, seemed to enjoy spending time with them, but he certainly doesn’t _trust_ them.

“He wanted to say goodbye,” Nyx says through gritted teeth.

“You keep saying that, what does that even _mean_?” Noctis demands.

“He just wanted some _comfort_ from someone, okay?” Nyx yells. “I don’t know! Maybe I was just easy, or convenient, but he _needed_ someone!”

A stinging pain wells up in Noctis’ chest, and he stops himself from demanding, _Then why didn’t he ask one of_ us? Because that’s not fair for him to ask of Nyx. Or something that Nyx would even know.

“Okay,” Noctis says. “So that’s your defense? That you couldn’t have hurt Prompto because you _fucked_ him?”

He flinches. “No,” he says, “I’m asking you to not send me off to the Empire to _die_ because your soulmate cares about me, even if none of _you_ do.”

Noctis hopes he catches his own flinch in time. “I’ll see what I can do, Ulric.”

“Thank you,” Nyx says. “And, Your Highness--how is Prompto?”

Noctis bites his lips, and then thinks _fuck it_. “He’s alive. Not awake yet, but alive.”

Nyx’s shoulders hunch over in relief, and he mutters, “Alive. That’s good.”

Noctis stands and lingers. “Anything else?”

He shakes his head. “Thank you, Your Highness.”  
  
Words fail him so Noctis only nods despite the fact that Nyx is no longer looking at him, gaze solidly on the table, and he exits the room.

Once they’re clear of the prisons and back in the Citadel proper, he sighs. “Well, fuck.”

Ignis sighs next to him, “Indeed,” and Noctis turns to look at Ignis, who looks as terribly hurt as he feels. 

“Why the fuck aren’t we good enough for him?” Noctis asks abruptly.

“Not here, Noct,” Ignis says as he grimaces. “This is not the time or the place.”

And it’s not. Iggy is absolutely right.

But by the gods. They’ve done everything they can for Prompto, and he _still_ chooses someone else. What else are they supposed to do?

Why hasn’t it been enough?


	15. Shielded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto wakes up. He wakes up many times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is probably going to be a lil confusing, unless you're reading my mind, and in that case i have a lot of questions and a big problem with that. big shout out and thanks to infidusfiles, who gave me advice on this chapter
> 
> also i might even work on the sentinel au after this. or maybe more of the werewolf mates au, who knows really

Prompto’s eyelashes are stuck together, almost as if they were glued. They weren’t, were they?

It’s like there’s a layer of crud over his eye lids. He tries to lift his arm to wipe them, but he’s so tired. His arm wiggles, a bit, and it hurts, so he stops.

He pries open his eyes anyway, and it’s gross and crusty. Prompto blinks up at the ceiling, surprised he’s alive.

The last thing he can remember is jumping out of the windows of the Emperor’s chambers. He must have fallen from that height… no wonder he can’t move.

Should he even be alive? What happened?

“Prompto,” says Ignis, next to him. Prompto stares at his face. “You’re awake! How are you feeling?”

“Iggy,” Prompto says, “what are you doing here?”

Ignis frowns. Prompto didn’t mean to make him unhappy. “The Ambassador requested that I stay. There are Crownsguard present in the room,” and he keeps talking. Prompto stares at the mole on his chin. “... certainly don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I can leave if you wish.”

Prompto opens his mouth. None of that made sense. Why is Ignis in Gralea? “Water,” he says instead.

“Ah—water? Of course,” says Ignis, and he gets up, and gets something from somewhere else in the room. Prompto watches him, but his eyes drift away. He stares at the textures on the ceiling. They’re different from Aranea’s room.

Iggy comes back. “I’m afraid all you can have now are ice chips,” he says gently. Prompto nods.

There’s something in his nose that he didn’t notice before. Huh. There’s cold tubes lying across his cheekbones, and his nose is so dry.

“Well, I suppose… would you open your mouth?” Prompto does, and Ignis places the small ice chip on his tongue.

It’s not enough. Prompto wants a big, cold, refreshing glass of water. It’s all he wants in the world, and would make him feel so much better.

He sucks on the ice chip. It melts and melts and then it’s gone.

“Would you like another?” Ignis asks. Prompto nods, again, and opens his mouth again.

The second ice chip is even better than the last. When he’s finished this time, he just opens his mouth for the third, and Ignis obligingly places another ice chip on his tongue.

Ignis starts to say something, but Prompto falls asleep.

...

“... he could hurt himself…”

“... doesn’t matter,” says Ignis’ voice. “We don’t restrain him.”

_What?_ Prompto thinks, struggling to wake up. That’s bad. That’s a really bad thing. He needs to wake up. His heart’s pounds in his chest, alarm racing through him, but his body’s not responding well to his wishes.

“You’ve woken him up. Silex, please escort her out of her,” he hears Ignis says. Then he’s by the bed. “Prompto, are you alright? Do you need anything?”

“No restraints,” he says, and that’s familiar. Why is that familiar? “Where’s Aranea?”

“No one’s going to restrain you,” Ignis says. “I won’t allow it, I promise.”

“Aranea,” Prompto says again, more insistently, trying to sit up. But it’s so hard to move. It makes him dizzy when he tries.

“She’s in Gralea,” Ignis says.

“Right,” Prompto says, “so why isn’t she here? She should be here.”

Ignis frowns, brows furrowing. “Prompto,” he says carefully, “where do you think we are?”

“I—” What kind of question is that? “Gralea,” he answers, letting his accent making the word rough and comfortable.

Ignis says, “Prompto, what do you last remember happening?”

What?

“Where’s Aranea? Did we win?” Prompto asks. His eyes drift beyond Ignis to the window, where the world is blue and sunny. The buildings in the city are grand and magnificent, with clean lines and beautiful architecture. Prompto stares. Something is wrong, but he can’t think of what. His mind chugs along, trying to figure it out, but the answer eludes him.

“Aranea can’t come right now,” Ignis says, and says something else. Prompto closes his eyes. He wants to cry. Where’s Aranea?

When Prompto opens his eyes, Ignis is sitting by the bed with a cup filled with ice chips. He’s still so thirsty, so he just opens his mouth.

…

“Iggy,” Prompto says, face wet and hot. “I did it, I did it—did I do the right thing?”

“Of course you did,” Ignis says, holding his hand.

“Where’s Aranea?” Prompto asks.

...

Prompto wakes up, and instead of Iggy, it’s Cor sitting by his bed.

Prompto stares. At his face. At his beard. Why can’t Prompto grow a beard? If he could, he’d want one like that one.

“You’re awake,” Cor says. “How are you feeling?”

“You’re Cor the Immortal,” Prompto says.

“Yes,” Cor says. “I am.”

Prompto smiles, wide and dopily. “You’re Cor the Immortal!”

Cor looks behind him at a man standing by the window. He looks back and says, “I am, yes.”

Prompto laughs. It hurts, and he coughs, which hurts too, so he stops. Cor reaches out and places a warm, steady hand on his chest, avoiding the bandages, while he struggles with his breathing.

Why does he have bandages…?

“... ice chips,” Cor says. Prompto misses the first part of that sentence entirely, but he catches ‘ice chips.’ He nods, and mercifully, Cor gets up and comes back with a cup of ice chips.

He helps him with it, like Ignis did. Prompto stares at Cor’s face a lot. He looks very serious. And older than Prompto was expecting.

The curtains are closed, but it seems dark. There are other people in the room, and Prompto doesn’t know when they got there. Their uniforms are wrong. Why are they wrong? Where is—?

“Why’s your uniform wrong?” Prompto asks. He blacks out before he gets an answer.

…

A large, blurry figure comes into focus, and Gladio smiles at him.

“Hey, Prompto,” he says. “How you feeling?”

Prompto opens his mouth and no words come out. Gladio waits.

“Bad,” he gets out.

“Yeah, I bet,” Gladio says. “Took a beating. We were worried we lost you.”

“Lost… me?” Prompto asks. “Why…”

He killed the Emperor, jumped off the ledge, and—and—

Asked Iggy if he did the right thing. Didn’t he?

But he just spoke to Iggy? Right?

But that was—why is Iggy in Gralea? _How_ is Iggy in Gralea?

No, wait. Why does he remember Cor?

How is _Gladio_ in Gralea?

Gladio’s talking, and Prompto’s not following any of it. He catches something about “improving security.” He’s moved on from that thread by the time Prompto gathers his thoughts enough to say, “Oh yeah, your security sucks.” Prompto remembers distinctly breaking into the Citadel very easily, with no problems. Their security _really_ sucks. He tries to convey that to Gladio, and only gets out, _“Really_ bad.”

Gladio’s grinning a bit, and Prompto stares at how it moves his scar. It’s a deep scar. How did he get it?

“Drunkard tried to slice up Noct,” Gladio says. Prompto tries to place the statement in a way to make sense, and fails. “I got in the way.”

“What?” Prompto asks.

“Huh, you keep switching between Gralean and Lucian, you know that?” Gladio asks, and Prompto becomes suddenly aware that they’ve been speaking in Gralean this entire time. His thoughts switch between Gralean and Lucian, and he tries to hold on to the Lucian, but it slips through his thoughts like water.

He still really wants a glass of water.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s all good. It’s kind of impressive. When did you learn Lucian, anyway?”

“I always knew it,” Prompto answers because he had as long as he can remember. He never learned it.

…

He wakes up, and Tinia’s sleeping in the chair by his bed.

Prompto reaches out for her, but can’t make it.

…

Noctis is sitting by his bed, playing a video game on his phone. He doesn’t look happy, his forehead creased with lines.

“Oh, hey,” Noctis says, “you’re awake!”

Prompto opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything.

“Uh, do you need anything?” he asks. “Uh, Iggy said you could have ice chips…”

Prompto’s throat is still so dry, and his nose is a desert. Doesn’t Lucis have a desert around it? Like, in Duscae?

“Here,” Noctis says, with a cup of ice chips. “Uh, Iggy said I’d need to help you, so, uh, open wide?”

Prompto doesn’t realize he has until there’s an ice chip on his tongue.

“They don’t want to shock your system by giving you too much liquids at once or anything,” Noctis says. “And solid food’s out of the question. The ice chips suck, but they’re better than nothing. Which isn’t saying a lot. Nothing is a pretty low bar right now.”

“Why are you here?” Prompto says, because Gralea’s so far from Insomnia, and Prompto never thought his soulmates would try to find him. Or that they would succeed. Where is Aranea? Did she know Noctis is here right now?

“I thought you could use the company,” Noctis says. He sighs. “The Ambassador’s been here a lot, but we’ve been sitting with you when she can’t be. And if we can’t, Cor does.”

There’s very little about that sentence that makes sense. Does he mean the Chancellor?

“So, uh… yeah,” Noctis says. “You’re staring at my face pretty intently right now, dude.”

Prompto realizes he is, and since now he’s called out on it, his eyes slide away to the window. However, he would much rather stare at Noctis.

“Uh, okay… wanna watch me play this level of King’s Knight?”

Prompto thinks he nods, or something, and Noctis scooches over so he can lean on the bed so Prompto can see his phone screen.

He starts the level. Prompto follows along well enough—he tenses when Noctis starts to lose health and smiles when he progresses. Though the game starts skipping around; Noctis is in one level, and then a completely different one the next second.

Eventually Noctis is gone, and there’s no game to watch anymore.

…

Gladio’s back.

He’s reading. Prompto stares at the title because it’s familiar, and he likes that book.

Gladio’s wearing a tank top, and Prompo can see the tattoo feather down to his forearms. Prompto’s never seen the whole tattoo. It’s some kind of bird, right? Prompto think it is. It must have taken a long time to get. And hurt a lot.

“How far does your tattoo go?” Prompto asks.

Gladio startles. “Oh, shit, you’re awake. Hey.”

“Your tattoo,” Prompto asks, “what is it?”

“Uh, my tattoo?” Gladio asks, stretching around, like he could look at it. “It’s an eagle, it’s part of the Shield tradition—makes soulmarks kind of hard to see, sure, but I think it looks pretty damn good.”

“I wanna see,” Prompto says.

“What?”

“Your tattoo,” Prompto repeats, “I wanna see it.”

“Uh,” Gladio says, chuckling a bit, “probably shouldn’t take off my shirt in your hospital room.”

“But,” he says, not understanding. “I haven’t seen it.”

“You’re going to have to wait,” Gladio says firmly.

“But I wanna see it,” Prompto says, moving his neck to get a better look at Gladio. He starts to roll over onto his side, “I haven’t seen it.”

“Whoa, whoa—hey, don’t move,” Gladio says, standing up a bit, placing his hand on Prompto’s arm and pushing him down lightly. “Listen, I’ll show you my tattoo later, okay? When you’re out of the hospital room. It’ll be, uh, something to look forward to.”

But Prompto wants to see it _now_. He says as much, and his eyes are burning a bit.

“Aw, shit. Okay, okay, don’t _cry_ , I’ll show you my tattoo. Here, Prompto, look.”

Prompto sniffs and opens his eyes, and Gladio’s standing up, back facing him. His back is a map of feathers and black panes, and Prompto could stare at the details for hours. Gladio says something to one of the Crownsguard, but it’s quiet and Prompto doesn’t care about it. He keeps staring at the tattoo.

Gladio sighs. “Alright, you good? Can I put my shirt back on?”

“It’s really pretty,” Prompto says. “I like it a lot.”  
  
“Gladio,” Cor says, at the doorway. He wasn’t there before, probably. Prompto’s not sure. There were people around the entire time, standing by the wall. “Why is your shirt off? This is a hospital room.”

“Ah, fuck. Cor, I’m just—he started to cry because I wouldn’t take my shirt off,” Gladio says. “What would you have done?”

There’s a pause, while Cor is staring at Prompto. His gaze is heavy enough that Prompto looks back at him.

Cor sighs. “Put your shirt back on, Gladio.”

Gladio does, shuffling out of the room, waving goodbye to Prompto. Prompto waves back, yelling out, “Goodbye! Bye!” He asks Cor, “Where is he going?”

“To his bed, probably,” Cor says, frowning a lot. “How are you feeling?”

Prompto moves his neck around, to get a better look at him. He’s so tall, and he’s frowning so much. “C’mere.”

“What?” Cor says, stepping closer, until he standing over Prompto. “Do you need anything?”

“Here—closer,” Prompto says, flopping one of his arms.

“You shouldn’t be moving,” Cor says, as he leans down.

Prompto boops him. Or tries to, anyway. Everything is still fuzzy and heavy, so his entire hand lands on top of Cor’s face. He says, “Boop,” and starts giggling and doesn’t stop for quite a while.

Cor removes his hand from his face, pulling his wrist down to the bed. He sits down in the chair next to the bed. “So you’re feeling alright then.”

Prompto’s still giggling.

…

“... I think it’s too much for him…” Is that Gladio?

“... we don’t want… hurt himself…”

This seems important. Prompto wills himself awake.

“...aren’t an option…”

But he fades away.

…

Prompto wakes up, groggy and mouth dry. There are still things stuck in his nose, and his nose is even worse than his mouth.

“Ah, Prompto,” Ignis says. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Like crap,” he says, “water?”

“Of course,” Ignis says, grabbing another cup of ice chips. “Do you remember why you’re here?”

“I jumped off a tower,” Prompto says, but that doesn’t sound right. “I think?”

“You were stabbed three times in your room in the Citadel,” Ignis says. “We’re in Insomnia. Do you remember any of that?”

“What?” Prompto asks. “But—Gralea—” He does remember that. “How long—?”

“You’ve been in this room for four days,” Ignis tells him. “You were put into immediate surgery, and you’re recovery quite well. The doctors are optimistic about your prognosis, though it’ll take time.” Prompto nods, feeling overwhelmed. “Do you remember who I am?” Ignis asks.

“Y—yeah,” Prompto answers. “You’re Iggy…”

A flash of a memory, of Ignis kneeling besides him in his blood, holding his hand and telling him he’s going to be okay. “Thanks.”

“What for?” Ignis asks.

“For being there when… when I was bleeding…” Prompto says.

“Ah,” Ignis says. “Of course. I only did as any would with a modicum of human decency.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, not quite believing that.

There’s a pause. “Are you in any pain?” Ignis asks. “The doctors decreased the amount of drugs you were getting. Gladio and Cor informed them that they believed your dosage was too high.”

Prompto squirms. He’s not in pain, but he’s also not quite pain-free. “I’m okay.”

“We can ask them to increase it back a bit, if you’re in any discomfort,” Ignis says.

“I think it’s okay,” Prompto says. “How… I mean… what happened?”

“You were stabbed three times,” Ignis says patiently. “You’ve been in the medical wing for several days. You’ve asked me what happened every one of those days.”

“What? But I was jumping off…” Prompto says, trailing off. “You mean I’m forgetting?”

“You went through a traumatic experience,” he explains gently, “and you’re receiving a lot of medications, currently. This kind of amnesia is common and temporary. You’ve also been very rarely awake for more than minutes at a time these past for days. Certainly none longer than thirty minutes, at most.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. “I’m so tired.”

“Then go to sleep, it’s alright,” Ignis says. “Do you need any more blankets?”  
  
“Yeah,” Prompto says, “I’m cold.”

...

“Tinia,” Prompto says, “did we win?”

Tinia smiles at him. “Yes, Prompto, we won. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Prompto says, smiling. “We really won?”  
  
“We won,” Tinia says again. “The Emperor is dead. You did great.”

“I did great,” Prompto repeats. “I did great,” he says, starting to cry.

“Oh, no, sweetie, don’t cry,” Tinia says, sitting on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb any of the variou wires and tubes hooked up to Prompto. “My _Proshka_. Everything’s going to be okay. You did great.”

He cries into her shoulder until he falls asleep.

…

“Prompto,” Ignis says, putting down his pad on the nightstand. The room is bright and airy. Where is he? “Good morning. How do you feel?”

“Bad,” he says. “What happened? Did we win?”

“We won,” Ignis says gently. “The Emperor is dead, and you did the right thing.”

“Oh,” Prompto says, relief crawling through him. “Good.”

“Indeed. Can I get you anything?”

Prompto shakes his head. Stares at the unfamiliar ceiling. Where is he?

“What’s… happened?” Prompto asks, the edges of his mind flickering with images that make him concerned. “How did you…? How are you here?”

“You’re in Insomnia,” Ignis tells him. “You came here after the war.”

“To find you,” Prompto says. That sounds like him. Like something he wanted to do. He thought so much of it, of hijacking on of the smaller, individual MT aircrafts, and just flying to Insomnia…

Ignis pauses. “If you say so,” he says, steepling his fingers over his knee.

“And I found you,” Prompto says, smiling a bit at Iggy and the ceiling. “Do you like me? Do I like you?”

“I—well,” Ignis says, spluttering. “We’ve had some unfortunate misunderstandings since you’ve gotten here. I am trying to mend bridges, but I am aware forgiveness is a slow process, if at all attainable.”

Prompto blinks a few times. Flashes of being immobile and scared, and of Ignis, at his bedside. He tests his arms, and there are no restraints. “But you let me go? You let me go.”

“No,” Ignis says. His lips are tense, and he’s frowning very hard. “I didn’t let you out of the restraints when you asked me to,” he says, and Prompto stares at him in surprise. Then why was he out of the restraints? “That was my mistake, and one I won’t repeat. I’ve made certain that there were no restraints for your recovery now.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. It doesn’t make much sense to him, but the restraints are gone. “But do you like me?”

“I—” Ignis says. “Of course. I think you’re a remarkable and incredibly strong-willed young man. I hope I have the chance to get to know you better in the future.”

“Do I like you?” Prompto asks, eyes growing heavy.

“I’m afraid that is a question I can’t answer,” he hears Ignis say before he’s gone.

...

Cor is back. He’s knitting. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Prompto says, and wonders if he really feels better. He feels more awake now than he think he has before. His memories are hazy, and he’s not quite sure what happened. “What happened?”

“You were stabbed in your room,” Cor says. “We’re in the Citadel of Insomnia. You killed the Emperor, won the war, and now you’re the Prince of Niflheim. The Ambassador, Tinia Nitidus, is also here.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. Shit. What? “Where is she?”

“Working. There’s a lot to do after a failed assassination,” Cor says, as he continues his… scarf? Prompto thinks that’s a scarf, but he’s never knitted in his life. He cleans his guns when he’s bored, or practices assembling them. “I’m here to guard you. You may also remember your soulmates here to visit or guard you in turn.”

“Guard me…” Prompto says. There’s something wrong with that. Something very wrong with that, and the other guards in the room. “But… their uniforms are wrong.”

“See, you’ve said that before,” Cor says, frowning and putting down his knitting. “I’m still not quite sure what you mean by that. Those are Crownsguards, in their Crownsguard uniforms. You don’t recognize them?”

“But… where’s the Kingsglaive?” Prompto asks, because they were always around. “Where’s Nyx?” Because Nyx is his guard. Was his guard. That changed, didn’t it, when Tinia arrived?

But Nyx didn’t just vanish, he was usually still around, and when Prompto was recovering before, Nyx was with him so much of it. Why wouldn’t he be here?

“Where’s Nyx?” Prompto demands again.

“Nyx is…” Cor says. “Why do you want to see Nyx?”

“Because—because I like him,” Prompto says. “And he’s usually here. My guard.” Cor’s expression is disbelieving, so Prompto tries to lean up. Cor presses the button that helpfully props up the top of the bed for him instead. Prompto adds, “He’s good at it.”

“Are you saying that Nyx _wasn’t_ the one who stabbed you?” Cor asks carefully, placing his knitting away on the nightstand.

“What?” Prompto asks, dumbfounded. “No! Why would he stab me right after sex? I mean, unless you count during the sex, but that’s not stabbing stabbing, but you know, penis stabbing—”

“Okay, I get it, stop,” Cor says, standing up. “Please stop.”

“Nyx didn’t stab me,” Prompto says.

“I get that,” Cor says, holding his hands up and palm open and facing him. “I really do.”

“Where’s Nyx?” Prompto asks again.

“He’s… ah,” Cor runs his fingers through his hair. He’s still standing, and Prompto’s neck aches a bit looking up at him. “He’s been arrested for your attempted assassination.”

Prompto stares. Cor stares back, grimly.

“ _What?_ ” Prompto yells, lurching up. The machines attached to him begin to scream, and sharp pain blossoms in his chest. A couple spots begin to feel wet. “What—but he didn’t— _what_?”

“I’ll have to report what you said in order to clear Nyx’s name—” Cor begins, but Prompto starts to thrash. “Easy, kid, you’re going to bust your stitches—ah, fuck. You already did.”

“You gotta get him out,” Prompto says. “He didn’t do it. He didn’t do it!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll get him out. It’s going to be okay, just calm down. We need to get a doctor in here—”

“No doctors,” Prompto says. “I hate them.”

Cor breathes out. “You popped your stitches. We need a doctor to close them back up, so your wounds can heal properly.” He rests a hand on Prompto’s shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze. “Doctors are here to help. And, uh, if it helps, I’ll be here the entire time.”

“I hate doctors,” Prompto mutters, trying to curl up. His chest hurts. It hurts to breathe, too.

“It’s going to be okay,” Cor says. “No one’s gonna hurt you while I’m around. I’m, uh, Cor the Immortal. Doctors don’t stand a chance.”

Prompto whimpers. “I want Nyx,” he says, “he’s a good guy.”

“I can’t get Nyx for you right now,” Cor says. “But I can get Gladio, if you’d like. Or Noctis or Ignis, even. Or Tinia.”

“Tinia,” he whispers. Cor nods, and takes his hand away. Prompto hears him tap out a text.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and doesn’t remember falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Please check out this art by kickingshoes of various PromNyx scenes throughout this fic!](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/169825436407/testing-isometric-stuff-more-a-royal-soulmate)
> 
> Click on the image to see a bigger version!


	16. Temper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument, long time coming.

“I miss the days when my son only had the two soulmates,” Reggie says, after Clarus informed him of the _newest_ developments with the Niflheim Prince.

Clarus frowns. “They were simpler, in a way,” he says, not quite agreeing. “But they’ve always had three soulmates, Reggie.” Always, even when Regis ordered strict regulations on when their sons could have pens, and when they could not. Even while they made the boys ignore their last soulmate.

No, Prompto was always there. He’s merely been more pivotal than expected. “And he’s your bond son, as well, Regis. And likely to be your son-in-law, if all goes well.”

Regis nods, as he leafs through the report Clarus drew up after Noctis spoke to him. Noctis, who went to meet with Ulric _without_ permission, because he owed Ulric a favor from months ago. (When did that happen? Why hadn’t Clarus been informed?) Their conversation only verified that Ulric and Prompto did indeed engage in intercourse, and Ulric was, of course, claiming it was consensual, which he has maintained when Clarus and others have gone to question him.

He also claimed that Prompto initially called him to his room to ask how to get along with Ignis going forward. Given how their meeting ended, that seems unlikely. Whether or not the sex was consensual.

But Prompto’s been on the verge of waking up, closer and closer to lucidity with each passing day. They’ll be able to get answers from him, hopefully.

“Do not mistake me,” Regis says. “It is fortunate indeed that a marriage between Noctis and his soulmate can so neatly tie up this peace treaty. But you cannot say that Prince Prompto hasn’t brought his own slew of troubles.”

“Very few of those troubles were his error,” Clarus says, shoulders tensing despite himself. “And without him, we would be a far worse position by far.”

“That may be so,” Regis concedes, “but you must admit that he has caused quite a bit of trouble. I’ve suspected for quite some time that he and Nyx were closer than they ought to be,” Regis says. He sighs, putting down his pen. “I should have put a stop to it.”

Clarus stares at his king and friend, and says, “Reggie, he _assassinated_ the Emperor. I would give a lot of leeway for the man who did that, even if he weren’t my son’s soulmate.” He puts down the file he’s holding, abandoning the pretense of reading it. “As for Ulric, what would separating them have accomplished? The poor boy’s traumatized, Reggie, he needed someone he felt like he could trust.”

“I am not blaming the boy for his trauma,” Regis says, laying the paper he’s holding on his lap. “I am questioning his behavior since the assassination. Stalking Ignis? Breaking into the Citadel? That rather spectacular breakdown after his entitlement, which finally sent Ignis to a counselor? What _was_ his plan? Did he really think he could barge into his soulmates’ lives without consequence?”

“Why wouldn’t he be desperate and excited?” Clarus snaps, “he had finally succeeded in something _none_ of us had been able to do! And after we made our sons _ignore_ him for so long, Reggie, we can’t expect—”

Regis cuts him off. “This is not a conversation in which I am conversing with you as _Reggie_.”

Clarus bites his words back, and he sits up straighter. They sit in their respective chairs, only a few feet away, but the distance between them has grown immeasurably in a moment. “Your Majesty,” he says, composed and professional, “Libri told me, when we met, that she was terrified as to why I ignored her so while we were growing up.” Regis’ face is impassive. “And I, as you know, did not _strictly_ obey the rule of not communicating with my soulmate. For Prince Prompto to have endured such, knowing he had several soulmates, must have been—”

“It was a necessary security measure,” Regis interrupts sharply. The report he was handling lies on his lap, while he picks up his cane and grips the head of it.

“I don’t disagree with Your Majesty,” Clarus speaks carefully. “I am only noting that it would have been difficult for a child to go through.”

Regis silently contemplates him, though Clarus can not quite read his reaction. Regis says with some consideration, “I am not suggesting it unfortunate how the circumstances played out. If our good fortune continues, I would like to see Noctis and Prince Prompto marry. But I will not regret the orders I made to ensure my son’s, and _your_ son’s, and Tellus’ nephew’s, safety. And you cannot deny that Prince Prompto has induced quite a many headaches during his stay.”

Clarus opens his mouth, to deny just that, but a knock on the door thankfully stops him before he can say anything unwise. “Come in,” he says, instead of addressing His Majesty.

“Lord Amicitia,” says the breathless Crownsguard. He bows hastily to himself and His Majesty.“Uh, Prince Prompto is awake. He’s claiming that Ulric did not stab him and… is loudly demanding that he see him.”

“Who’s with him?” Clarus demands as he gets up to sweep out of the room, leaving his conversation with Regis behind him.

It barely matters now. What’s done is done, and their common goal is the same. But Clarus feels not a small amount of regret for so thoroughly enforcing that their boys not contact Prompto while they were younger.

He went through so much of that alone. And they left him to it. Clarus thinks if it had been Gladio, or Iris, left to fight for their lives and freedom and the people who should be there for them—the ones they should be able to count on as part of their lives, Astral-chosen mates of their souls—ignore them entirely.

Gods. Gods forgive him.

No wonder Prompto can’t connect with him as his bond-son. Clarus was a _fool_ for thinking that might work—

“Sir?” Crownsguard Cataracta asks.

“Yes,” Clarus says, picking up his pace down the hallways. “You were saying?”

“Prince Prompto woke up not too long ago, and spoke with the Marshal, who was serving as his primary guard at the time,” Cataracta says. “He, uh, adamantly told the Marshal that Ulric wasn’t the assassin. And he, uh,” they step into the elevator. When the doors shut, he continues with a blush, “confirmed that the, uh, _indiscretion_ was, um, consensual.”

Clarus blinks. “Ah,” he says, and thinks, _Poor Cor._ “Did he say who attacked him?” His wounds were all in his front. He must have seen his attacker, but the trauma may still cause a delay in his memory—and if so, they might _not_ be able to clear Ulric entirely.

Cataracta shakes his head. “No, sir. Not while I was present at least.”

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Clarus says.

…

Clarus bites back a swear when he arrives to Prompto’s hospital room to find the Ambassador sitting on his bed, holding his hand.

“Lady Ambassador,” Clarus greets. He nods to Cor, who’s standing by the wall with his Crownsguard soldier. Cataracta moves to join them.

“Lord Amicitia,” Lady Nitidus replies. “I see you’ve heard that Prompto is lucid.”

“Indeed,” he says. “I was hoping to ask him some questions.”

“Nyx didn’t do it,” Prompto says, still lying down on his bed. Nitidus smooths his hair. “He didn’t attack me.”

Clarus glances at Cor, and gestures to the door. Cor straightens, and with a brief nod, he and his Crownsguards leave.

With the room mercifully emptier, Clarus closes the door and claims the seat by Prompto’s bedside. “I’m glad to hear that,” he tells Prompto, who stares at him with eyes still slightly not focused correctly. “Do you remember who did attack you?” He would rather conduct this line of questioning without the Ambassador present, but asking her to leave would be a poor idea.

“Lucian,” Prompto says. “Shabby. Dark hair.”

That… doesn’t help at all. “By Lucian,” Clarus says patiently and slowly. “Do you mean Insomnian? Or from any _specific_ region of Lucis?” Oh, but how would Prompto know how to identify people from their region? He’s not Lucian.

Clarus is cursing himself and this investigation when Prompto nods. “Yeah. Insomnian. Pale. His hair was black.”

Definitely a man, at least that’s confirmed. “Have you ever seen him before?”

Prompto blinks a bit. “Maybe?” he says after a long moment.

“Do you remember where? Or when?” Prompto doesn’t reply, frowning hard in concentration. “This is important, Your Highness,” Clarus urges.

“Prompto, sweetie,” Nitidus says. “Do you remember?”

“In—in the Citadel?” Prompto says. “I think? His face…”

“Where in the Citadel?” Clarus pushes, and takes a risk. “Prompto, do you remember if you ever saw him wearing a uniform? Was he wearing a uniform when he attacked you?”

Prompto shakes his head. “No… no, I can’t remember…”

Clarus doesn’t sigh. “Very well. Could you describe his face and appearance to a sketch artist for us?”

Prompto nods.

Clarus considers, briefly, if he can put stock in Prompto’s word in his current state. Still unwell, in pain, on quite a bit of painkillers… could he be misremembering the attack? Perhaps he doesn’t _want_ to believe that Ulric attacked him after their affair.

But the Ambassador is right in the room, and heard Prompto’s account for herself. He can’t doub the Prince’s word in front of her. “Regarding Ulric,” he says, and can’t stop himself from pausing as he gathers his thoughts. How does he ask this? “Before the attack, you invited Ulric to your room.”

Prompto nods, staring at the ceiling. His pupils are disconcertingly large with the effects of the drugs. “Yeah.”

“What was the… purpose, of the visit?”

“Sex,” Prompto answers. Clarus takes a moment before he replies to that, but Prompto frowns. “No… I wanted to ask about Ignis. To… figure out how to talk to Ignis. But we had sex, too. I wanted to say goodbye.”

“I see,” Clarus says. That’s what Ulric said, as well. One last thing, then. “And… when you and Ulric were… _engaged_ , was it…”

“It was _great_ ,” Prompto says, nodding.

This time, Clarus does splutter.

The Ambassador laughs, snorting on occasion.

“Not that!” Clarus protests. “I wouldn't ask that! I wanted to make sure it was consensual!”

“Oooooh,” Prompto says, long and dragged out. The Ambassador keeps giggling, but her composure returns slowly. “Yeah, it was.”

Clarus sighs. “Good. If the Lady Ambassador is satisfied,” he says, over the sound of the Ambassador’s wide smile, “then I’ll order the release of Kingsglaive Nyx Ulric and have him cleared of all charges.”

“I am satisfied,” she says.

“I wanna see him,” Prompto says immediately.

“I will let him know you would like him to visit,” Clarus says, “he may want to return to his home, first.” He may not want to see Prompto at all, after this. He needs a plan as to how to deal with that.

“I wanna see him,” Prompto says, eyes closing. His breath is even and slow, and after a moment passes, it’s clear he went back to sleep.

Clarus stands up and so does the Ambassador.

“He’ll probably sleep for a while,” she says.

“I’ll have the Crownsguards return,” Clarus tells her.

“Do we have any other suspects?” Nitidus asks.

Clarus hesitates, searching for the most reassuring words he can. Ones that won’t start a war. “Rest assured, my lady, we are doing everything we can.”

“So you don’t,” she murmurs, turning away from him.

“You needn’t be concerned,” Clarus says, as he tries to save the situation. “When you speak to the Empress—”

“I will tell her whatever information I find pertinent,” the Ambassador says definitively. “Is there anything else you need here?”

“Not while he’s sleeping,” Clarus says, heart thudding a bit at the thought that the _Empress_ will hear how ineffective their search has been. They’ve had no other leads, aside from Ulric; no witnesses who saw the intruder enter the Citadel, no one who saw him leave; no weapon or footprints; nothing.

The Empress is going to be pissed. The Prince is alive at least, and will recover, but she’s going to be pissed.

He’ll have to discuss with Reggie what they might be willing to lose to appease her.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave,” Clarus says. Nitidus nods, not looking at him, and he nods back and ducks out of the room.

...

Nyx is lying on the cot, maybe even dozing off, when he hears unfamiliar footsteps. He’s up in an instant, standing at attention.

He will not be caught off guard. And he won’t let them take away his dignity.

The footsteps head straight to his cell, and Nyx is slightly surprised to see Lord Amicitia stop outside his cell.

“Ulric,” he says, as a Crownsguard opens the door. “You’ve been cleared of all charges. You’re free to go. You will receive generous compensation for the distress and inconvenience.”

That catches Nyx off guard.

“What?” he asks, world feeling like its tilting on its axis. He’s _free?_

Amicitia’s face softens. “You’ve been cleared. Prince Prompto woke up and adamantly demanded your release. His account of the events clears you of all wrongdoing. Except,” Amicitia adds, frowning a bit, and Nyx’s shoulders tense, “perhaps, of poor judgement.”

“Prompto? He’s awake?” Nyx asks because the last he heard was only that he was stable and not dead. He ignores the sting of the _poor judgement_ comment. It’s not wrong, but how could Nyx have expected—“Is he okay?”

“He will be,” Amicitia tells him, stepping away from the door, allowing Nyx to step out of the cell for the first time in… a while. Time loses meaning in a prison cell. “He finally was lucid enough to tell us what happened. He confirmed your story.”

“So do you know who did it?” Nyx asks. Clarus motions for him to hold out his arm, for the bracer there preventing him access to his magic. He does so, and the bracer is removed, and Nyx feels the rush of magic like he’s a welcome home. “Did he describe the attacker?”

Clarus leans back. “I’m afraid that is not information I can share. You are, for many reasons, too close to this investigation to be allowed to have any part in it,” and Nyx tries not to flinch. It’s one thing to know that everyone including his King and bosses to found out in the worst way that he had sex with Prompto, and another to _know_ that.

“Understood,” he mutters. They walk to the center where Nyx receives his belongings. Amicitia waits while he collects his things, and continues to walk with him on his way out.

Nyx waits until he clears his throat, preparing to say whatever it is that he wants.

“We’re putting you on paid leave,” Amicitia begins, which is not what Nyx was expecting. That’s actually quite nice. He can be miserable in the comfort of his own home for a while. “We’ll decide the end date of that paid leave after you’ve seen a counselor, and when we’ve discussed it with Captain Drautos.”

“Sounds good,” Nyx says. None of this sounds like anything that couldn’t have been sent to him via a voicemail. Or an email. Why Amicitia is still walking with him is unclear.

Amicitia sighs. “And if you are willing, Prince Prompto requested to see you.”

Nyx stops. “He did?”

“Yes,” Clarus confirms. “However, if you don’t wish to, you needn’t go. I know this has been a troubling experience, and while I… assume your encounter with him was based on some affection, I won’t have you be forced into a situation you don’t want to be in. I’ll handle it.”

Amicitia seems earnest, is the thing. Nyx breathes in a bit, thinking about his response. He can… appreciate… Amicitia’s offer. After all, if he _wasn’t_ as fond of Prompto as he is, then the idea of being asked to visit a recovering, foreign Prince would be daunting.

But Prompto deserves better than that.

“Sir,” he says quietly, “it wasn’t Prompto’s fault that you arrested me after he was stabbed.”

Amicitia considers him. “No, it wasn’t,” he says. “That was my decision.”

They stay at an impasse.

“I’m relieved to know that you don’t blame Prompto,” Amicitia says.

“Of course I don’t,” Nyx says. He thinks about how improper it is to mention sex in Insomnia, but he’s tired and has spent the past week in a prison cell. “I wanted to have sex with him as much as he did.”

Amicitia reddens, and coughs. “Well, that’s. Good, that’s good.” He presses on, “Well, then. Whenever you feel up to visiting Prince Prompto, please let send a message to Cor so you may coordinate your visit.”

So the Crownsguard is in charge of Prompto’s security now? Shit, Nyx will have to check in with Drautos to make sure he didn’t put the Kingsglaive too much in the shitter with his actions. “Understood, sir.”

When he walks away, Amicitia no longer keeps pace with him, so he picks it up to get home.

…

Drautos blows him off when he tries to check in (“Just enjoy your godsdamned paid leave, Ulric _”_ ), so Nyx messages Cor to ask when he can visit Prompto.

 _he’s awake, I’ll ask him_ , Cor messages back. Nyx decides to get some coffee while he waits, but his phone almost immediately beeps again with, _he said anytime. he also said that now is good._

 _i’ll be there shortly,_ Nyx texts. He abandons his plan for coffee—he can always swing by the Kingsglaive offices, someone will have some around—gets dressed, and goes.

Only when he gets to the Citadel, stepping in through it’s large, double doors, past the brand new security check does Nyx think, _What the hell am I doing?_

Prompto was just the commoner soulmate of Lucian royalty when Nyx first met him, scared and alone and hurting. He desperately needed a friend, and Nyx can admit he has a bit of a hero complex.

But Prompto’s a prince now. Nyx can’t let himself forget that. They had sex (which _everyone knows about now_ ), but sex doesn’t mean anything.

It’s one thing to have sex with nobility. It’s _another_ when that nobility is also royalty. And yet another when everyone knows about it.

He’s cleared of all charges, Lord Amicitia said that himself—but Nyx told Prince Noctis himself that he fucked his soulmate. He yelled at him that Prompto cared about him, even if none of them did.

Prince Noctis knows, so does his soulmates, and their parents—

Shit, that means the _King_ knows.

What are they going to _do?_ Will they really let him just go back to work like normal? What will happen when Prompto leaves with the Ambassador back to Niflheim?

 _Well_ , Nyx thinks, as he loiters in the entrance of the Citadel, no one paying him any mind. He’s out of the prison. Prompto woke up and vouched for him. Can they do anything to him, if the Prince of the Empire likes him?

Probably. Drautos would know better than he does of the risks he’s facing. He’d have to talk to him. There’s no guarantee that Prompto likes him enough to protect him in the future. Or that he even still likes him, after what’s happened.

And Nyx was probably just convenient, anyway, and Prompto desperate. Even now, all he has is the busy Ambassador and the MT guards, and no one else. Nyx isn’t important to him.

Sex really doesn’t mean anything.

Flashes of Prompto begging him to fuck him, clinging to him as he kisses him, makes Nyx backtrack the thought. _I’ve been important to him while he’s been here_ , he corrects. He thinks about when Prompto tried not to cry in the elevator in front of Nyx after screaming at Amicitia and Ignis about being raped. He thinks about how even after all that, Prompto just wanted to be comforted as he fell asleep.

 _Fuck it_ , Nyx thinks. He doesn’t regret anything. He wouldn’t be him if he had left Prompto to his pain.

… The sex might have been a bit of a mistake. Considering the consequences. Nyx mulls that over, and decides it’s too much trouble to beat himself up over that.

Decided, he walks through the Citadel with his head held tall to Prompto’s room.

…

When Nyx arrives at Prompto’s new room, he and Cor are softly speaking.

His room isn’t unlike his old one, but after the assassination attempt, Prompto had to be moved. And he’s been here for a while already. There are fresh sunflowers on the nightstand, but there there are two different haphazardly stacked books on the nightstand next to the vase. On a table in the room, an handheld video console that Nyx is fairly certain belongs to the Prince. Some sweaters and blankets lie around the room.

Prompto’s soulmates must be regular visitors then.

That’s… something. That’s good. They should visit him at a time like this.

“Your Highness,” Nyx says, bowing. “Sir.”

“Nyx!” Prompto exclaims, a relieved smile changing his entire face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Your Highness,” Nyx tells him, smiling back a bit. With the Marshal and Crownsguards again, who assuredly know at least a little bit of why Nyx was arrested, he doesn’t want to be too familiar from the get go.

He thinks for a second that Prompto will correct him, but he stops himself and looks to Cor. “Give us a minute?”

Cor doesn’t answer for a moment. Last time Prompto was alone with Nyx, His Highness was nearly killed. “Of course,” Cor says, standing up. “But we’ll be right outside.” He gives Nyx a look on his way out, like he thinks Nyx might try to have sex _again_ with Prompto. Like he doesn’t think that Nyx has _learned_ that maybe that wasn’t the best idea.

He nods to the Marshal anyway. He _has_ learned his lesson after all.

Next time Nyx wants to sex up a prince, he’ll make sure he stays to fucking cuddle afterward to prevent any potential assassins.

Cor exits the room with his soldiers, and they close the door.

“Prompto,” Nyx says. Because he knows that he’d rather be called by his name. “How are you feeling?”

Prompto’s smile fades, and he grimaces. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so _sorry—_ ”

“Listen,” Nyx interrupts, walking to sit down at the chair Cor just vacated. It’s even still warm. He smiles, aiming for reassuring. Prompto looks so small and pale on the hospital bed. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t plan to be almost assassinated. And, what we did might not have been the wisest idea, but it happened. And we’re both still alive,” Nyx says, grinning a bit, “which is always a win in my book.”

“No, I meant,” Prompto makes a noise of frustration. “Don’t be so flippant. I’m trying to apologize.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Nyx says, “Your MT guard was out by your door, but I should have made sure your security was fully back in place before I left.” He’s thought a lot about this. He told the MT he was leaving at the time, and… perhaps the MT called back others to fill in? But Nyx didn’t wait. He didn’t think it was a good idea to wait. Nyx had been… more emotional than he’d liked, at the time. “And waited until it was.”

Prompto squeezes his eyes shut. He’s lying propped up on the mattress so he’s sitting up, but his chest is bound almost entirely in bandages, and he’s got multiple wires and an IV in him. _He almost died_ , Nyx thinks. _And I’m worried about my stupid shit._

“I don’t blame you, Prompto,” Nyx repeats. “I really don’t.” He doesn’t. Nyx should have known better. “And, fine—I won’t blame myself, either. I’ll blame that fucker who tried to kill you.”

Prompto stares at him. “Yeah,” he says, “fuck that guy.”

“Good,” Nyx says, leaning back. “So, how’s bedrest been treating you?”

Prompto rolls his eyes. “Ugh, it’s been _awful_. Though I was pretty much out of it for the past week, though I could have sworn it was like… just a day. But look!” he says, as he wiggles his fingers. “No restraints! So no freaking out! That’s been great.”

“That’s great,” Nyx says. Someone else learned their lesson, too, then. _Wonder who that was_ , Nyx wonders.

“Tinia and my soulmates have been keeping me company. Mostly to explain things that I was forgetting for a while. But I’m a lot more together, now,” Prompto says. “When did they let you out of prison? Clarus said he was going to do that right away.”

“I got out just yesterday,” Nyx says.

“Oh, good,” Prompto says, relaxing a bit. “Clarus came here to question me yesterday.”

Nyx nods. They sit in silence for a moment. “So what’s Lucian prison like?” Prompto asks.

“Dreary. Had a cell to myself, though,” Nyx says. “And everything in the cell was clean and worked. And not even a little bit of torture,” he tells Prompto. “So that’s a plus.”

Prompto frowns. “So how does that work, if they don’t torture you? What do they… do?”

“Well,” Nyx says, “They focus on rehabilitation mostly. But for something like attempted assassination on the Crown Prince of Niflheim…”

“They would have given you over to the New Empire,” Prompto finishes. “Yeah.” He bites his lips, and just when Nyx is about to open his mouth to continue the conversation, he bursts out with, “Aranea wouldn’t have hurt you. You didn’t need to be—even if I’d died, and they sent you to Niflheim to be tried, I’d already told Tinia that you were my friend here, and they would have demanded a real investigation. They would have.”

Nyx blinks at him. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind if I ever get arrested for your attempted assassination again.”

“And they’re trying to scrap government executions entirely,” Prompto says. “They wouldn’t have killed you.”

“I think we’ve established that dying isn’t the worst thing the Empire did to people,” Nyx says before he can stop himself.

Too late. Prompto flinches. “No, it’s not. But—for what it’s worth. Aranea would have demanded answers that Insomnia wouldn’t have, if they handed you over. She’s not as hot-headed as they think she is. She led the Resistance for a reason.”

That… makes a lot of sense, and while it’s no longer a relevant concern, it’s nice to know that Nyx wouldn’t have been strung up immediately if he had been left to the New Empire’s mercy. “That’s good to know.”

Prompto sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...” He trails off, leaning his head back on the pillow. “I got you into so much trouble.”

“Hey, you mean the sex?” Nyx asks, and Prompto closes without opening his eyes. “The sex was a mutual decision. Maybe a _bad_ mutual decision,” which is a mild way of putting it. Monumentally a bad decision, but it’s not like politics isn’t full to the brim of bad sex decisions. “But one we both made.”

Prompto sighs. He opens his eyes, but he doesn’t look at Nyx as he says, “I don’t like regretting sex. It makes me feel… I always thought my life was really too short for it, and I wasn’t going to let the Empire control even that.” He doesn’t seem finished, so Nyx waits.

“Given what’s happened,” Nyx says, his worries for the future consequences still niggling in his mind, “I mean, I really should have known better.”

Prompto frowns. “So you regret it?”

“I don’t regret it,” Nyx tries for reassuring. He smiles, but he doesn’t think he hits the right note. “But I should have known that it wasn’t my place to… comfort you in that way, and I shouldn’t have let myself think with my dick.” Prompto stares at him, mouth a bit open in surprise. “Er, apologies for my language.”

“What the _fuck?_ ” Prompto asks.

“Um…”

“What’s all this with the—‘think with your _dick_ ’?” Prompto repeats, he makes a movement with his chest and shoulders, like he’s going to try to sit up. Nyx reaches out to stop him, but Prompto pushes his hand away. “‘Should have known better’? It wasn’t just your decision!”

“No, I’m not trying to say that,” Nyx insists. “I’m just saying that sleeping with nobility almost always ends badly, and I—”

“You didn’t know some asshole was going to try to assassinate me!” Prompto exclaims.

Nyx doesn’t know how they got here. “I didn’t, of course not, and you didn’t either, but—”

“I _wanted_ to have sex with you!” Prompto says, loudly, and Nyx thinks, _Yup, the Marshal definitely heard that_. “The fact that we did it right before someone tried to kill me sucks, but it’s unrelated! If we’d had sex the night before, it would have turned out totally different!”

Nyx considers that, before saying carefully, “They ended up a bit tied up together, Prompto.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, deflating.

“I don’t regret it,” Nyx says again, because that bears repeating. “But I have to live with the consequences, and I don’t get the benefit of being royalty. Because now my bosses all know about it, including your soulmates and my _King_.”

“Oh, I can fix that!” Prompto says. “I can talk to Tinia about making sure they don’t try to punish you for having sex with me.”

Nyx opens his mouth to protest in reflex, but… why would he argue that? That’s absolutely what he needs from Prompto right now. And the least Prompto could do for him. “That’d be great,” Nyx says. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course,” Prompto says, “It’s been… you’ve been so great, the entire time I’ve been here. And that’s… really important to me. Thank you.”

Nyx smiles, reaches out to tap the back of Prompto’s hand, until he holds it out for Nyx to grab. He pulls it to his lips and says, “You’re welcome, Your Highness.”

Then, the door opens.

…

Nyx is holding Prompto’s hand near his face, eyes wide as he returns Noctis’ stare.

Neither of them let go of each other until Noctis clears his throat, chest aching. “Ulric,” he says. His heart thuds in his chest, as he tries to unclench his hands. “Mind giving us a moment?”

Both of them drop each other’s hands simultaneously. “Your Highness,” Ulric greets, standing up and falling into military rest. “Of course. I beg your pardon.”

“Wait,” Prompto says, “we were talking.”

Nyx stares at Noctis’ face, and he isn’t sure what he sees on it. “We can finish our conversation later. Excuse me, Your Highness, Your Highness.” He ducks—flees, really—out of the room past Noctis, closing the door behind him.

“What the hell, Noctis?” Prompto snaps at him, and Noctis…

Noctis snaps back. “Why were you holding hands with him?”

“That’s none of your business,” Prompto tells him, angrily.

“It _is_ my business, you’re my _soulmate!_ ” he yells.

“What the _fuck—”_

Noctis shouts, “I finally get to _talk to you_ , and you’re ignoring me for a kingsglaive!”

Prompto’s jaw drops, and Noctis drives forward, pain and anger creating a frothing ache in his chest. “Why did you even come here? You stalked Iggy, made him think he was going to _die_ , and you _say_ you wanted to find us, but did you _really?_ Ever since you’ve gotten here, all you do is push us away and ignore us!”

Prompto’s mouth closes midway during Noctis’ rant. His eyes harden and his fingers clench on to of the bed covers.

“I ignore _you?”_ Prompto repeats quietly.

“You’re finally _here_ , and you choose Ulric over your _soulmates_ ,” Noctis shouts. “You had _sex_ with him! The three of us tried so hard to reach out to you and help you and get to know you, and you had sex with _someone else—”_

“It’s none of your _fucking_ business who I have sex with, and I’m definitely not going to have sex with you just because you’re my soulmate!” Prompto yells back, leaning forward from the pillows on his bed. Noctis wonders distantly if he should be doing that, but he can’t bring himself to mention it.

“ _It’s not the sex that’s the problem!_ ” Noctis yells.

“You three _ignored_ me for _ten years!_ ” Prompto screams. “ _Ten! Years!_ I could have _died_ at any _time_ , and the three of you _ignored me!_ ”

“We drew to you when we could,” Noctis snaps back, “and you drew on our _faces twice_ —”

Prompto makes a harsh, wounded noise in the back of his throat. “We lose nine fucking people that day and you assholes were fucking _celebrating—_!”

 _They lost nine people?_ Noctis hadn’t known that. How could he have known that? When it had happened, Noctis had just been happy that he’d had sex with his soulmates for the first time. Happy that he’d _enjoyed_ it, since he wasn’t sure he would. Because he had thought something was wrong with him.

But Prompto lost nine people that day.

“I didn’t know that,” Noctis says quietly.

“Of course you didn’t fucking know that, you never spoke to me,” Prompto shoots back.

“We couldn’t talk to you,” Noctis says. “My father—”

“You spoke to me just fine when I was stalking Iggy,” Prompto interrupts. “Your father’s orders didn’t stop you then, did it? No, you just ignored me, for _ten years_. Do you even know what it’s like in Niflheim? How long I spent thinking about what my soulmates were like, and wondering why they ignored me?”

“You didn’t try to talk to us either,” Noctis points out, but he feels mostly sick now. His head and heart hurt. “You never—asked us questions or said anything to try to talk to us—”

“Yeah, because I was terrified that one of you would get me _killed_ ,” Prompto says. “And I sure as hell noticed that you guys stopped talking whenever I wrote anything.”

“You’re not _listening_ to me,” Noctis says, “we couldn’t write to you.”

“Yeah, that’s just a convenient excuse right? I didn’t matter until I made myself your problem,” Prompto says, “And as soon as I showed up, suddenly it’s my fault that my life’s been shit and I’m a mess of trauma and I don’t know how anything works when I’m not constantly threatened with death. I already talked to Ignis about the stalking and apologized, which you would know if you talked to _him_ at all.”

Ignis did mention that. He mentioned it, but, “I was the one who told everyone to give you a chance. I—” _told Iggy to write back to you_ , but Noctis isn’t so angry that he can’t see why he shouldn’t say that.

“Well, thanks a lot. Hey, since we’re talking about it, let’s go over the other shit you people have done to me. You made me _kneel,_ ” Prompto says, voice increasing in volume as he speaks. “You made me _kneel_ to a foreign king, after I’ve spent my _entire life_ fighting! You _assholes made me kneel!”_

They did. They had their reasons, but…

Noctis hadn’t thought about what kneeling would mean for Prompto. For him, it’s just ceremonial. For Prompto...

“You restrained me, you _drugged_ me, you keep me under watch at all times, you didn’t even _meet_ with me until I got that shiny new title you forced on me, and you think you have the right to be upset with me?” Prompto keeps going, “You weren’t there! You weren’t there for me! The Resistance is my family, not you three! They’re the ones who bled for me! They’re the ones who _died_ for me! I had to come here myself before any of you started to give a shit about me!”

“We give a shit about you!” Noctis roars, trying to break Prompto’s tirade. “We do care! But we literally couldn’t write back to you because—”

“ _No one here except Nyx has even bothered to listen to me!_ ” Prompto shouts. “He’s the _only one_ who has even  _acted a little bit_ like he _cares_ about me! And I _wanted_ to have sex with him! I’m not going to have sex with someone who doesn’t give a shit about me!”

“Alright,” Gladio says behind him, from the door they left open. _Shit,_ Noctis thinks. Cor and a couple of his guards were out there. “That’s enough, Noctis. His Highness needs to rest, and I’m kicking you out.”

“I—I—” Noctis starts, but he has nothing to say. “I’m sorry,” is all he gets out, but Prompto looks even more furious at his apology, tensing like he’s prepared to release another barrage. So Noctis flees, not unlike Nyx did just a bit ago.

…

“Sorry about that, Your Highness,” Gladio says. “You mind if I close the door?”

Prompto shrugs, staring off to the side of the room, jaw tense. Gladio closes the door, and moves to take the seat by Prompto’s bed.

This isn’t how they should have this conversation. Gladio probably shouldn’t even be the person to do damage control, at this point. Over and over again, they bungle any attempt at relating to Prompto, and at some point, they need to just _stop_.

But Gladio can’t let them end on the note Noctis just played for them. Prompto’s going home, sooner rather than later, and Gladio has to hope he can recover something form this.

“First off,” Gladio says, and sees Prompto’s shoulders rise incrementally, “fuck Noct. He’s being a shit.”

That surprises Prompto out of his stressed position. “What?” He turns to look at Gladio, and his face is dry, but his eyes are red.

“Noct’s being a little shit,” Gladio says again, empathetically. Noct just made everything worse, ordering the Crownsguards and Cor to let him through. He’s going to have to talk to Cor; thank him for letting him know what was happening, and making sure Noctis can’t bungle shit up this badly again.

At least he knows that Cor won’t let the Crownsguard gossip about what they heard. Thank sweet Shiva for small favors. Gladio continues, “He doesn’t have any right to say any of that to you. He doesn’t get to be angry about who you have sex with. That’s your choice, your personal choice. The fact that we’re your soulmates doesn’t mean you’re obligated to do shit with us.”

Prompto considers him, and Gladio tries to make his expression as open and honest as possible so he’ll pass inspection. “Noctis sure sounds like he cares about the sex.”

“It’s not the sex he cares about,” Gladio says, trying to see how he can explain this, especially in a way that doesn’t just make him seem like a liar. “He doesn’t even really care about having sex that much.”

Prompto scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“He cares about intimacy,” Gladio tries.

“Intimacy,” Prompto repeats. “Wouldn’t have pegged him for _that_.” He side eyes Gladio, and adds a bit meanly, “Or you, either.”

Gladio tries not to take it personally. He knows he doesn’t look the type. “For him, sex means intimacy, since he wouldn't have sex with just anyone.” Prompto still doesn’t look like he believes him. “Just with people he trusts and loves, which are his soulmates.”

Prompto doesn’t say anything. Gladio tries again, “You see, Noctis—”

“No, I get it,” Prompto says. “He thinks sex and intimacy are the same, fine, whatever. He still doesn’t have any right to demand _intimacy_ from me.”

Gladio nods slowly. “No, he doesn’t.”

“And he’s full of shit, coming in here to yell at me about shit that happened while I was your _prisoner_.”

“Yeah, he is. He shouldn’t have done that,” Gladio agrees.

Arms folded protectively around his chest, Prompto relaxes a bit more back into his pillows. “You three ignored me for _ten years_.”

“Yes,” Gladio says. “We did. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Prompto asks, voice breaking.

“We were ordered not to reply to anything you wrote,” Gladio says. “We were told that our safety and the safety of our country would be at risk if we didn’t obey. Our pens would be taken from us if we tried. And—and when Iggy and I got old enough, we were in charge of making sure Noct didn’t try to talk to you, either.”

Prompto’s blue eyes widen in shock. “They _took_ your pens away from you?”

“They did.”

"By they, you mean like—”

Gladio shrugs. “Dad. King Regis, but not usually personally. Most often it was Crownsguard soldiers, who were also ordered to keep a close eye on our communication.”

“That’s awful,” Prompto says.

“I know that doesn’t make it better,” Gladio says. “I know those were a long ten years for you, and that they were painful and lonely and dangerous.” He’s read the reports. Oh, he’s read the reports. The idea that they might have been able to find Prompto earlier and rescued him from what he suffered has kept Gladio awake at night. “And I made it worse. I’m sorry.”

Prompto sniffles, loudly. He swallows hard. “Why did they order that? Why did they… I thought Clarus liked me, at least a little bit.”

“Dad does like you,” Gladio says, and he’s about to add, _but he’s in charge of security_ , but it’s just another excuse that Prompto doesn’t need. “He was wrong to order us to ignore you.”

“I was a kid,” Prompto says, voice wet and hair covering his eyes, “I was a kid and they ordered you to _ignore_ me.”

“We’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Gladio agrees. “We did a lot wrong by you.”

A sob comes out of Prompto. He sniffles again, louder and wetter than before, and his hands come up to press against the bandages on his chest. “Shit,” he says, “I can’t even cry.”

“I’m sorry,” Gladio says, and Prompto’s head lifts up suddenly.

“Stop apologizing!” Prompto snaps. “You were a kid, too.”

That’s a nice sentiment, and Gladio wants to latch onto it. They were kids, too, all of them. But, “I hurt you,” Gladio says, because it’s still their fault for not realizing how _lucky_ they were that their soulmate survived their stringent orders. At some point, they should have realized, and they didn’t. “And so did Ignis, and so did Noctis. Noctis was wrong to come here and yell at you.”

“Yeah, he was,” Prompto says. “But—okay, I get a little better what he kept trying to say about not being able to write to me.”

“Good,” Gladio says, beginning to stand up, “that’s all I wanted to explain. I can get Cor, or Nyx if you want—”

“Wait,” Prompto says. “Can you stay a bit? I have some… more questions.”

Gladio sits back down, and smiles. “Yeah, of course. What did you wanna know?”

“Why do you care about me?” Prompto asks. “Is it just because I’m your soulmate?”

The smile drops off of Gladio’s face in surprise.

“Because—look, all Noctis and I did was play video games when he had some free time. Ignis and I just had a couple of tea parties. Of _doom_. And you’ve helped me with physical therapy, and talked to me about books, which has been a lot of fun, but the only one who’s been there for me has been Nyx.”

Nothing is going to get better if Gladio lies to Prompto. Or worse, try to manipulate him. Or sugar coat anything. They know he doesn’t like that kind of handling. “I enjoy your company,” Gladio says. “Now that you’re here and getting to know you is an option—now that not even the King can stop us from getting to know you—I can… allow myself to care. And grow attached. But you’re right—none of us have been there for you in the way you needed, but none of us _could_ be there for you the way you needed. We were… too close.” No, that’s not it. “We were part of the problem.”

Prompto doesn’t respond, peering at him through his bangs.

“And,” Gladio says, “because we were part of the problem, you were never going to let us close enough to be in a position to help you.”

Prompto purses his lips, but gives a tense nod. “Probably.” This isn’t quite what Gladio wanted—a line of tension is coming back into Prompto’s body, which isn’t good for him. He’s about to open his mouth to elaborate, to undo what he did, but Prompto says, “but that’s only because you _forced_ me to stay here.”

“We didn’t know if—” Gladio begins but Prompto cuts him off.

“No, you forced me to stay here. You restrained me, drugged me, hunted me down, and brought me back, and kept me here. And… you didn’t have to do that.”

 _We didn’t want you to go back out there and die,_ Gladio wants to say, but it wouldn’t help. _We didn’t want you to go back out there and try to kill us, either._ “Yeah. That definitely didn’t help.”

“I get it,” Prompto says. “I get it. It’s politics. I mean, I think—I think the reason I’m here is because of politics. But—it didn’t help. It didn’t help us then, and it’s not going to help us now. I need to go home.” He sighs. “Can you get me Tinia?”

That’s it, then. “Yeah,” Gladio says, “of course.”


	17. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made behind the scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's up?

Prompto’s shouts, his accusations, ring in Noctis’ ears as he walks the halls and follow him down the hall like a specter. The words sting; neither Ignis nor Gladio would ever speak to him that way. They’ve been angry at each other. They’ve all been angry. But no one has ever been so… unrestrained in their fury before. Ignis and Gladio always hold themselves back, never forgetting that their responsibilities include managing Noctis’ behavior. Which means, of course, managing themselves first and foremost.

Noctis doesn’t like to think of himself as coddled. He’s not stupid enough to think that he’s not, however. There’s a reason he can barely connect with people his age who aren’t already in his life, and the problem isn’t other people.

Just like, right now, the problem isn’t Prompto. Noctis went into the room, already gearing for a fight, and let himself explode when he found Ulric there. And then he didn’t have a leg to stand on when Prompto viciously and righteously screamed back.

Noctis’ grandfather, King Mors, was known for his habit of silencing those who opposed him. Commoners, servants, friends, family--even his soulmate, if the pointed silences were right. Mors hadn’t cared to know if he had wronged someone, and would force them into silence if the complainant made a fuss.

He doesn’t want to be like that. Noctis usually doesn’t think he has the capability of being so. It’s a comforting thought.

Less comforting than thinking how easy it would be to ignore Prompto’s accusations. To continue to blame him, rather than take any responsibility.

 _I’m the Prince of Lucis_ , Noctis thinks to himself. _I must learn from the mistakes of my ancestors_. I must be responsible, compassionate, and self-reflective. He takes in a deep breath, and considers the mess Mors made of the court and of Lucis. _Also, fuck Mors_. He’d rather die than be a King like him.

The anger smoldering in Noctis for days did not ignite and leave nothing behind. It simmers still, leaving Noct feeling shaky and adrift, unaware of his direction until he finds himself standing in front of his father’s office.

Two crownsguards stand outside the door. Noct nods to them, and one leans inside to announce him. “Prince Noctis, Your Majesty."

“Come in,” his father calls out. Noctis walks in and shuts the door behind him.

Regis doesn’t look up or acknowledge his presence until he’s finished writing whatever he’s working on. It’s probably important, but it lets Noctis stew for far too long.

“Yes, Noctis?” Regis asks, when he turns his attention to his son. “What is it?”

“Why did you order us to ignore Prompto?” bursts from his mouth. This won’t be delicate or congenial, then.

Regis gazes at him, and Noctis fights the uncomfortable feeling that his father is reading his mind. Despite the rumors, that is not an ability any of their line has been able to do.

“I did it to keep you safe,” says Regis, after a long moment of silence during which Noctis stubbornly held out.

Noctis waits, but now Regis stubbornly doesn’t elaborate.

“We really hurt him, Dad,” Noctis says, voice more hoarse than he expected. All of that emotion and shouting would do that. “And that’s all you have to say?”

“Yes,” Regis says simply.

“We ignored him,” Noctis says. “For _ten years_. We weren’t even allowed to keep our pens. And now he’s here and all we’ve done is hurt him--”

“I took the appropriate measures for his circumstances,” Regis interrupts. “Soulmate or not, he was dangerous. If he is ever to fulfill his role as one of your soulmates, we very well couldn’t have him hurt or kill any of you.”

“He wouldn’t have hurt us,” Noctis protests.

“We didn’t know that at the time. How could we?” his father asks. “Certainly, we might have been too… zealous, in the measures we took, but I will never apologize for doing what I must to protect you and my kingdom.”

Noctis opens his mouth, and Regis repeats, “ _Never_.”

He shuts it. His father’s face is lined with misleadingly mild determination. Noctis knows that particular mild expression means that his father will not budge. Not in the slightest.

Unbidden tears well up in his eyes, and his throat constricts painfully. Noctis could scream and wail, if he really wanted to--but what Prince his age still cries when he’s upset? His father isn’t beholden to him. (Regis is not beholden to anyone.) He would look like a spoiled child.

“It wasn’t right,” Noctis says instead, trying to keep his voice steady. “We were wrong.”

Sighing, Regis takes his pen back up.

“Nothing We do ever is,” he says. “Now come here--let us go over these trading agreements.”

…

“Ah, Kingsglaive Ulric. Do you have a moment?”

Nyx turns around to face Ignis. Today is the first day he risked leaving his apartment to return to the Citadel, and he’s being bothered by the lordlings already. “Yes, my lord.”

“There’s no need for that,” Ignis says as he leads them towards his office. “I rather think you could just call me Ignis, at this point.”

“Yes, sir,” Nyx says. He’s not sure if he wants to be respectful or an asshole, not really. The words come out of his mouth before he made a decision on that front. Nyx believes that comes through in his tone, as Ignis slants him a considering look. Nonetheless, he follows Ignis dutifully down the halls until they arrive and the door is shut behind them. “How may I serve you?”

“You’re not here to serve, actually,” says Ignis, as he pulls out a rather intimidating pile of papers and lets it thumps onto the desk. “Well, not me, in any case, as this request on you is still a measure of servitude if done properly. No, this is about Galahd.”

Nyx waits in mounting confusion that is not abated by the finish. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean, sir. Ignis.” Why would Ignis want to talk about Galahd?

A peculiar expression crosses Ignis’ face. He steeples his hands together on the desk in front of him and says, unnecessarily ominously, “Have a seat, please. This is a conversation best had while comfortable.”

“If you say so,” Nyx says uncertainty. He takes a seat.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Ignis asks. When Nyx shakes his head, he wastes no time in proceeding. “The reason I wished to speak with you, Nyx, is that the Empire is allowing us to restore some of our former regions.”

He says that with a weighty stare. Nyx really isn’t sure what he’s supposed to get from all that. “I’m aware. It’s all the Kingsglaive has been talking about.” Well, and Nyx’ whole… clusterfuck… of a thing with Prompto. The restoration of their homes, peace and freedom for the first time in centuries, and Nyx’s sex life are all equally interesting to his friends.

“Yes, of course,” Ignis says, nodding. “As our lands are being restored to us--” _Us?_ Weird. Nyx could swear that Ignis was from Tenebrae, not Lucis “--it has been decided by His Majesty that we should restore alongside it the former method of governing these regions.”

“Okay…” Nyx says, trying not to let his confusion show on his face. A tiny suspicion slithers through his mind, but it’s so outlandish that he lets it pass without paying any attention to it.

“Back when Lucis was at its mightiest, each region had its own representatives in the Lucian Royal Council,” says Ignis. “And His Majesty requests that you join this Council as representative from Galahd.”

The thought that had so easily snuck by without notice comes back with force enough to render Nyx speechless. “What?”

“The Lucian Royal Family would like to extend the request that you join its Council, so we may best serve the needs of the Galahdian people,” Ignis says. The words sound scripted and bland. Judging by the faintly annoyed look Ignis sports, he is aware of this. “As a Galahdian native who has served in Insomnia’s elite military force, you are an ideal candidate. You are familiar with both lands’ laws and customs, and we know you to be a trusted individual.”

Nyx stares. His mouth is open, but he can’t make himself stop being rude.

“You will, of course, have to be titled for the position,” Ignis adds.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” says Nyx.

“Then I have a rather poor taste in jokes, indeed,” Ignis replies calmly. Unsurprised. Nyx forces himself to calm down. After everything that’s happened, they wouldn’t spring this on him thoughtlessly. _Someone_ put some thought into this. Whether they had those thoughts completely sober is an entirely different question. “This is no joke, I assure you.”

“This is all politics,” Nyx says. “You’re all just trying to make up for what you put me through. You’re trying to _appease_ the Empire.” It’s probably more specific than that, Nyx realizes. “Prompto. You’re trying to reconcile with Prompto.”

“I cannot say with any definitive certainty what factored into this decision,” Ignis says, careful and measured. He shows no hint as to what impact, if any, Nyx’ words had on him. “My opinion was not asked for. In fact, no one’s was. His Majesty believes you would be best for this position.”

 _King Regis_. He always thought His Majesty liked him, had a soft spot for him since he met him on that horrible day in Galahd when Nyx lost his family and his home and his pride.

What in Titan’s grimey caves does the man think of him now?

“So it’s definitely meant to pacify the Empire,” Nyx concludes weakly. And maybe him, too, but his feelings don’t matter at all in international politics. Unless they think his feelings are important to Prompto, then…

His head begins to throb painfully. Nyx hates politics. It’s an obvious ploy, and not even one being conducted subtly. They’re _using_ him--it’s not enough that he’s sworn his life in their service, fighting the front lines. They won’t treat him as equal, even after asking him to be on their Council. How could he accept?

But he hasn’t said no yet. He doesn’t think he will. He doesn’t want to.

His people have waited and fought for so long for justice and freedom, holding onto their pride and vestiges of their heritage when nothing else remained. This is an opportunity, regardless of the political machinations driving it forward. How could he refuse? His family would have been so disappointed in him.

But… “I’m sure there are more qualified candidates still in Galahd who know the region’s situation better than me. I haven’t been there in years,” says Nyx. Still Galahdian, always Galahdian, but… if he takes a position to help the people without listening to the people about the choice, he’d be off to a bad start.

“You won’t be the only representative from Galahd,” Ignis says immediately, leaning forward onto the desk. “We are still searching for viable Galahdian candidates with political experience and power who survived the Empire.”

Ah. Yes, anyone with any real political acumen was probably executed.

There really isn’t a choice left, then.

“I’ll do it,” says Nyx.

“Wonderful,” Ignis says, then pauses. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some time to think it over?”

Nyx intends to insist, but a few thoughts catch up to him first. “I’ll have to leave the Kingsglaive.”

“Most likely,” Ignis says. “It is, however, a process we may do gradually. We do need all hands on deck while reaffirming our control over our regions. Keeping the order during a shift in power is of vital importance.”

Keeping control of a population is always so much more difficult than conquering. The Empire only managed it because they had their mass produced soldiers. “Has Captain Drautos been alerted?”

“He has not. I am aware that your position and trajectory within the Kingsglaive is important, but I did not want for him to influence your opinion before making the offer. Of course, you may discuss this with him before you accept. You may discuss this with anyone you’d like, in fact.”

Nyx should discuss this with Drautos. He can tell him if Nyx is way over his head here. “I’ll do that.”

“Think it over, discuss it, and let me know,” Ignis says. “I, for one, think you would do quite well in the role.”

“Do you?” asks Nyx. He never thought he had Ignis’ good opinion. It never even occurred to him as a possibility.

“Of course I do,” Ignis says, brows raised in mild surprise. His gloved hand taps the desk in a quiet rhythm. “You’re a very good speaker and negotiator. You’ve successfully navigated both courts and battlefields, earning respect from nobility and your fellow soldiers. You’ve demonstrated strong tactics and compassion in and out of the field. Your Captain speaks highly of you, regardless of even your… let’s say recent political intrigue…” Nyx does not flinch. He knows just as well as anyone else in the Citadel the argument that passed between Prompto and Noctis, and he won’t undermine Prompto’s decisions or pride by acting like he’s ashamed. “It is a decision that has been made with politically-motivated appeasements in mind, certainly, but those motivations do not eliminate your other qualities. With some lessons I would be happy to provide, I think you would do rather well as a politician.”

“Ah,” Nyx says, uncertain how to react to the praise. “Thank you.”

Ignis smiles and tilts his head.

“I’m a little… surprised,” Nyx says as delicately as he can. “That you have such a high opinion of me.”

“Whyever should I not?” Ignis asks. Nyx waits for him to give away the gag, but after a moment, he realizes that he’s completely serious.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I most certainly am,” Ignis answers. “Everyone has a scandal or two during their career. It’s nothing to be overly concerned of. Yours was certainly a bit more dramatic and unfortunately received international attention, but as you’ve managed to remain in all parties’ good graces, it all ended rather well.”

“Dear gods,” Nyx says before he can help himself. Prompto nearly dies through an assassination plot that’s _still_ unresolved, and Nyx is suspected and arrested for it, and that ended well? “Fucking _politics_.”

A corner of Ignis’ mouth twitches up. “Indeed.”

...

Nyx leaves Ignis’ office already feeling the weight of his people’s expectations on his shoulders. He is almost certain that he will accept, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t at least pretend that he can be dissuaded.

He does not, however, go to the Kingsglaive common areas. Even Libertus and Crowe will receive the news with light-hearted mockery alongside congratulations. The both of them hate the idea of politics even more than Nyx, and their speculations on what he will have to deal with is not what he needs. The daily bullshit of court isn’t what worries him.

He heads to the training fields, where Drautos is scheduled to oversee drills. The man knows his way around politics. He’ll be able to tell Nyx if he’ll be eaten alive by it all.

The training field in the courtyard is about as lightly populated as it would have been during the war, when they never had enough bodies to fight and maintain order. The war is over, but with an assassin on the loose and peace to maintain, no one has had a break.

Drautos is easy to spot, tall as he is. Nyx approaches him, and waits for Drautos to acknowledge him. When some moments pass without, Nyx clears his throat. His captain snaps out of whatever thoughts domineered his attention and turns to him.

Nyx blinks. This close up, Drautos looks terrible, exhaustion deepening the lines on his face. “Sir? Are you alright?”

Drautos says, flatly ignoring his question, “What is it now, Ulric?”

He hesitates. “Are you sure you’re alright? If it has to do with the fallout from my thing with Prompto, I can help--”

“Stop,” Drautos says. “It has nothing to do with you, and isn’t any of your concern. Do not ask again. Now, why are you here? You’re still on leave.”

Forced leave that was nonetheless presented as recompense. Nyx doesn’t bother to argue semantics on that point. “I’ve been offered a position on the Council as a representative of Galahd.”

Drautos closes his eyes. Opening them, he says, “Come with me.”

“I have never wanted children,” Drautos says, jarringly unexpected as he leads them to a private training hall. “At first because I never believed I would live long enough to have them. And then because the this concept of wanting children eludes me. I am not naturally patient, nor do I enjoy managing others’ emotional wellness. And, from my observation, children never do as their parent wishes. They seem to serve no purpose other than driving their parents mad.” He takes an offensive stance, and Nyx slides into the defensive.

“Are you…” Nyx starts. “Are you saying you see me as your son?”

“No, I’m saying that I feel really justified in never having kids right now if this is how frustrated you make me,” Drautos says, and Nyx blocks his blade with his own. The Captain gives no warning when he’s about to strike. He batters the blow away, and Drautos continues, “You’re going to make me go grey early, Ulric.”

Nyx grins. “You do think of me as a son!” He pulls on the lightning magic infused into his kukris, and launches it at Drautos while coming at him from the other side with his blades.

Drautos blocks the blades and just… takes the lightning hit like it’s nothing. Nyx doesn’t know if he’s more offended, scared, or amazed. “Fuck off, Ulric.”

“I love you too, sir,” Nyx says, heartfelt and rearing to piss him off.

Drautos scoffs, and aims a blow to his leg which Nyx has to practically dance away to avoid. They spar for quite a while, until the stress and energy winds down and all Nyx is left with is exhaustion and distress gnawing hungrily at his gut.

All previous levity has vanished. Somber, Drautos says, “They’re going to eat you alive.”

Nyx concludes, tightening his grip on his weapons and raising them defensively, “So you don’t think I can do it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Drautos says, to his surprise. They break apart, and Drautos lowers his weapon in a clear signal that they’re finished. Nyx lowers his as well. “You’ll be miserable. This will change your social standing, and it will distance you from your friends. They may even cease to be your friends. You will have to change how you think, how you talk, and how you behave both in the Citadel and out of it. You will make mistakes. You will need hand-holding to prevent from ruining your own reputation. Lessons. You’ll feel like an idiot. Even if you do well, people will constantly look for an opportunity to degrade you, and pull you down. Prejudice and racism will be worse than it is now, and you’ll find yourself allying with the same people who insult you and your people because you must.”

The heavy weight of dread sits uneasily in Nyx’ gut.

“If you’re _willing_ to take that on… then I do believe you can do it. You’re a stubborn asshole.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” Nyx says. “Who would sign up for that? But I think I have to.”

“You don’t have to,” Drautos says. He frowns. “Did someone tell you that you have to?”

“I don’t think I could forgive myself if I refuse,” says Nyx. “I need to do it for Galahd. My family. My friends,” his throat tightens around the word _friends_ as he thinks of how he very well might lose his close bond with Libertus and Crowe and his fellow Kingsglaives if he dives in balls deep into politics. He would no longer be just another soldier. He wouldn’t be one of them any longer.

“Your career as a Kingsglaive would also have to end,” Drautos adds on, voice more gentle than before. “Although, I’m sure many of my soldiers are planning to leave as soon as their contracts allow so they may return to their homelands. I was intending to ask you for your plans in any case.”

That’s… true. Nyx could turn Ignis down, leave the Kingsglaive, and just… go home.

 _Go home to what?_ he thinks, turning away from that option completely. _There aren’t even any graves._

“I wasn’t intending on returning to Galahd, sir,” Nyx says, realizing that he doesn’t know if Libertus or Crowe planned on doing so. They could open a bar, like they had before. Retire from fighting and politics and bullshit.

Even as he thinks it, Nyx doubts that he can pick up where he left off. How could he? The difference between the man he is now and the boy he used to be is immeasurable. Trying to slot into the shape of a barkeep now makes him feel too large and ill-fitting.

He could return to Galahd and join their army… that would be much more likely for Crowe and Libertus, if they haven’t had their fill of fighting already. But who would be in charge of Galahd now? What sort of tattered remnants of a local government does it have?

Ramuh, there would have to be someone stepping up to lead Galahd. Who would it be? Who would Nyx be willing to follow?

 _Follow._ The idea of signing away his life to yet another puffed up politician who has no idea what it’s like on the front lines sickens him.

And he has another option.

“I think I’m going to do it,” Nyx says.

“Think it over tonight, Ulric,” Drautos says. “This isn’t something to rush. Sleep on it. Discuss it with your friends.” He glances over to the training Kingsglaives. “While I hope some will stay with the Kingsglaive, there may be some who would like to follow you. Although…”

“Although?” Nyx prompts, when Drautos trails off.

He shrugs. “If you don’t want to be a representative, you could take over my place as Captain in the Kingsglaive.” Ignoring or missing Nyx’ shock, he continues, “The position has a considerable amount of political power, if you use it right. If you’d like to stay within the military, it would be a decent alternative to functioning as a representative for Galahd.”

Nyx doesn’t respond. Drautos adds on, “Something to consider.”

“You’re planning to leave?” Nyx demands, when his voice returns. “When?” How could he _leave_? Drautos runs the Kingsglaive better than any military faction Nyx has ever seen. “You can’t leave.”

Drautos eyes him. “Can’t I?”

“Sir, Lucis is going to be regaining a lot of war-torn land,” Nyx says, voice as calm and professional as he can make it. “Our presence and ability will be needed more than ever. Your leadership will be needed more than ever. I mean, members of the Kingsglaive aren’t going to leave any time soon. There’s still so much work to be done.”

“I did not mean an immediate replacement,” Drautos says slowly. “Though if something were to happen, either you or Lazarus would be ready for the position, I think.”

“But you mean a more gradual replacement?” Nyx asks. “And more training?”

“Sure,” Drautos says. That did not sound like confirmation. “If you would rather be a representative for Galahd--which could also be a position of some power, and one that would allow you to be directly involved with Galahd--I’ll discuss this with Lazarus instead.”

Thoughts swirling, the choices before him seem impossible to choose between. Becoming Captain of the Kingsglaive _would_ be a legitimate option, but military leaders are still expected to defer to the nobility.

But not having that established backing would leave Nyx vulnerable and likely to fail. It would take some time, until whenever Drautos planned to retire. Or moved to a new position.

Oh! Drautos must be moving into a new position! That would explain why it sounded like he needed someone to take on the role soon.

“I’ll have to think about it, sir,” says Nyx.

“Do that,” says Drautos. “Let me know as soon as you come to a decision.”

Nyx nods and heads to the exit of the training room.

“And Nyx?” Drautos calls before he’s out the door. “Look after yourself.” 

**Author's Note:**

> join me in chocobro hell at my tumblr, seladorie.tumblr.com
> 
> Also many thanks to my friends, She5los and magumarashi, for always giving me feedback on this story and reading all the text I send them. Go check out their work!
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/users/She5los/  
> http://archiveofourown.org/users/magumarashi/

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